


Lost and Found

by NatatBlue



Series: Reality Check Universe [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dom/sub, Light BDSM, M/M, Polyamory, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:04:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 71,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatatBlue/pseuds/NatatBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the second novel in the Reality Check Universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

**Lost and Found**

**Chapter 1**

 

The Olde Curiosity Shop was busy today. It was late for such a busy season in West Banner, Massachusetts, the end of fall and the transition to the winter with bare trees and gray skies usually meant the end of business. Maybe it was the the reality show, Meet Your Mate. Mace Dewey still could hardly believe his staid and proper housemates had become involved in what could only be described as tacky and invasive to the extreme. It had put West Banner on the map, and probably more that a few of the customers were here hoping to catch a glimpse of the now famous Tilden Blake and his two partners.

Mace dashed between tables, wiping up crumbs and collecting glasses as fast as he could. He still limped from an accident on the rodeo circuit many years before, and his ankle ached. The New England rain and dampness did nothing for screws and metal bits that held his left ankle together. This was not a good day to be short three people. Trent, his business partner and husband, had gone to an auction to bid on rare books, first addition mysteries and westerns that fit their theme well, one student staffer was out sick, and the other had pleaded confusion about the due date for a paper and had taken a personal day. This left Mace with only the elderly Bethany manning the cash register and assisting people in the books. She was a dear, blue-haired lady but a road block at the cash register, tediously licking her fingers and counting each bill as she doled them back to the customers. Mace could see the natives getting restless, but what could he do? Bethany wasn’t strong enough to heft the heavy trays full of dirty plates and glasses, and she made coffee at glacial speed. The icecaps would be melted before she got the first latte on the counter.

A young man, whom Mace didn’t recognize, tapped the tabletop impatiently while he picked at the menu cover with his other hand. Mace hurried toward him, figuring he was running late for a class. As Mace approached the table, he realized the guy was trembling all over. His pale blond, nearly white hair was plastered to his scalp with water and his wet, porcelain colored skin appeared even paler framed by dripping black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. Mace saw no sign of a coat. “I can serve you on the hearth. It’s warmer there.” 

“Thanks,” the guy said, looking around with nervous jerky movements until he spotted the fireplace tucked between two rows of books and crowded with worn armchairs and strewn-about newspapers. “I forgot my coat,” the stranger said unnecessarily as he stood wiping his palms repeatedly on his drenched jeans.

“You’ll be much warmer by the fireplace. Today’s special is the shepherd's pie. It should warm you up.”

The stranger jerked his head up and down as if he were too distracted by the cold to form a coherent reply. Mace decided the motion meant he wanted the blue plate special. Mace added a pot of coffee without asking as his customer huddled by the fire, his arms embracing his knees, looking lost to the world.

In the bustle of the lunchtime crowd, Mace soon forgot his eccentric customer until he heard a shout from Bethany at the cash register. “Young man, stop this instant, or I’ll have the police here.”

Mace tossed two sandwiches and chips at the table by the window and hurried to see the cause of the commotion. Peter Smith, the pharmacist from around the corner who ate lunch at the Olde Curiosity Shop every day, had grabbed the pale-haired man by the arm and was grimly marching him towards the rear of the shop.

“What’s going on here?” Mace asked, imaging police reports for assault and battery as Peter dragged the reluctant customer toward Mace.

“This little thief tried to run out without paying.” Peter shook the guy as he said each word.

“Easy, Pete,” Mace drawled, “Let’s not dislocate his shoulder. What’s your name, son?” Trent usually took care of this kind of thing, but Mace had seen him do it enough times that he thought he had the schtick down and pummeling the would be thief or hogtying him was not is the script.

“Alfred Conrad Harrison.”

“Um—Alfred,” Mace started before he was interrupted.

“Everyone calls me Cotton on account of my hair.”

“OK, Cotton, do you have any ID on you?

“No, I left it at home. Please, don’t call the police.” Cotton squirmed uncomfortably in Peter’s grip and at least to Mace looked on the brink of tears.

“Just settle there, cowboy; nobody said anything about the police just yet.”

“The police are too good for him; this little thief should have his butt tanned,” Peter muttered, digging his fingers into Cotton’s arm.

“Peter, I want to thank you for catching him, but I think I’ve got it from here,” Mace said.  

Peter looked none to happy about releasing the would be criminal. “Are you sure? These college kids’ thieving has really gotten out of hand.”

Mace nodded. “Lunch is on us today for your fine apprehension of this dangerous criminal,” he said with a small grin. 

The offer of free lunch mollified Peter, and with a final shove he released Cotton before giving Mace a brisk nod and heading back toward the street, muttering about today’s wild youth.

“Cotton, are Peter and Bethany right that you were walking out of here without paying?”

“Yes, sir. Are you going to call the cops now?” A tear trickled down Cotton’s cheek, and he swiped at it with his soggy sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’ve never stolen anything before. I was just so cold and hungry."

“If you’d told me you’d forgotten your wallet, I would've let you pay tomorrow.” Mace said, his hands on his hips, trying to keep a stern expression. Trent would’ve already had the police here, but Mace was starting to feel sorry for this kid, and he did seem to be a kid. Probably no older than Luke or Mike, the young men on Meet Your Mate and Mace’s new housemates.

“I live in Providence. It’s not like I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Mace looked at the growing crowd of customers at the counter, some starting to stir impatiently at the lack of service. A few were directing pointed glares his way, and the gentleman he’d promised pie to was waving his chit back and forth in the air. “Have you ever worked in a restaurant or a coffee shop?”

“I worked as a barista for six months.”

“Good, get behind the counter, and we’ll call it even.”

“You mean like washing dishes for a free meal?”

“Exactly. Now get going, cowboy, before I have a riot on my hands.”

“Eh...,” Cotton hesitated, “I don’t know how to thank you. I could’ve have ended up in jail.” Cotton again looked like he was on the verge of tears.

“I think jail might be a little melodramatic,” Mace said with an easy grin. “Now, go get the coffee served, or I’ll be on your ass. You’re still soaked. Get started, and I’ll see if I can come up with some dry clothes.”

Cotton gave Mace a timid smile and scrambled to get behind the counter. Mace watched him from the corner of his eye as he rounded up a pair of jeans and a spare sweatshirt from the stock he kept at the store for an unexpected spill. Cotton handled the espresso machine like a pro and even managed to chat with the customers as he passed out coffee and sweets. 

The lunchtime rush had settled into a trickle of customers for pie and coffee. Cotton scrubbed the counter, keeping a wary eye on Mace.

“Easy, cowboy, I think I’ve gotten my blood from you.”

“Yes, sir,” Cotton replied, never taking his eyes off the now imaginary crumbs on the counter.

“Mace is fine. You’re making me feel like an old guy or a top.”

Cotton looked up, unable to hide the distress in his pale blue eyes. He continued to move the cloth over the counter in an absent sort of way as if he’d forgotten what he was doing. Cotton sniffed and blinked before dropping his head back to the counter.

Mace walked over to the coffee pot, poured two cups, stirred in milk and sugar, and plated a large slab of apple pie, scraping the last few apples from the now empty pie tin. He pushed both over to a quiet corner of the soda fountain. “Cotton, come sit down and have some dessert.” That kid looked like he was falling apart. He had his back to Mace now, but Mace had seen him wipe his face with his sleeve several times, he had to be crying. “Come on, kiddo. I’m required by law to give my workers breaks.” Mace took a long sip of the hot, sweet coffee. This was Trent’s forte, not his. Actually it was Milton who’d he seen handle unfamiliar and frightened young men with ease and comfort. Milton might masquerade as a mild mannered history professor at Banner College, but he was a dominant and a damn good one. He was one of those rare men who could flex his muscle in play, but also genuinely cared and wasn’t afraid to use his top skills to push young men onto the path of righteousness. Trent was more of an undercover top, passing through society as a vanilla guy unless he had to. It was probably all those years writing for those hunting and fishing magazines while he courted Mace. The Western Shooter wasn’t exactly known for its enlightened thought.

Cotton shuffled over to the stool next to Mace, his eyes still anywhere but on the coffee shop owner. “I can’t pay for the pie.”

“We close at four today. So after three anything left is fair game for the help.” Mace didn’t bother to add that the rest of the staff knew that apple was Trent’s favorite and that they would have jealously guard the last piece for their boss. “How old are you kid?” Mace asked softly.

“Nineteen.”

“You get into it with your parents?”

“Not this time.”

“Your girlfriend?” Mace asked with a hint of a smile. If his gaydar wasn’t broken, he’d bet  Cotton was gay and a submissive to boot. But no use scaring him by tipping his hand too soon.

“Boyfriend.” Cotton forked a piece of pie into his mouth, and then the dam broke loose, a flood of words and tears. “I let the birds loose. He keeps telling me not to mess with the birds if he’s not with me. He’s going to kill me.” 

“I doubt if it’s a capital offense.”

“It’s not funny. The palms are worth ten thousand dollars.”  Cotton wiped his eyes with a crumpled napkin. “Why am I telling you this?” 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have made fun of you.” Mace said, handing Cotton a stack of paper napkins. If he’d been Milton, he would’ve had a crisp, white handkerchief embroidered with his initials to hand the tearful boy. “So what are palms?” Mace asked when the crying had calmed.

“Rare black cockatoos. They’re worth loads of money.”

“And you’re only supposed to handle them if your mysterious boyfriend is about?”

“Yeah, Brad, Dr. Roberts, he’s a vet, says I can only handle them when he’s around. I don’t have the experience yet.”

Mace nodded. He had a good idea where this conversation was headed, but how did he get the information without telling more about himself than he usually shared with strangers? “Cotton, were some sort of consequences promised for not properly handling the birds?”

Cotton nodded, and tears started to brim over his eyes again.

“Hey, there’s no need to cry. It can’t be that bad.”

“You don’t know.”

“I think I’ve been in the same situation more times than I care to mention.”

Cotton stared at Mace, a curious expression on his pale, tear-streaked face.  “You can’t know?”

“I think I’ve been in your situation more than once; trust me.” Mace gave Cotton a wide grin and rubbed his shoulder. “It won’t be that bad.”

Cotton sniffed and wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Use the napkins, cowboy.”

Cotton stuck his tongue out. “Top,” he muttered as if it were a mild curse.

“Cowboy, I’ve already told you once I’m not a top.”

“You’re not vanilla?”

“No, not exactly.” Mace knew he should just put this kid out of his misery and tell him, but telling a relative stranger about the intimate details of his relationship violated all his upbringing. Everybody in the house knew, but that was different.

“You’re a brat?” Cotton said shyly.

Mace shrugged and nodded. It was close enough. He didn’t truly brat; that was more Milton’s partner Sheldon, but using the term sub would probably confuse the kid more. Mace definitely didn’t do kneeling and public displays of submissiveness.

“You seem so bossy.”

“I’m not a wilting daisy. So now that you know about me. I think you owe me. What are you running from? And don’t even pretend that you’re not running—out with no coat and no wallet. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Cotton rubbed his palm on his borrowed pants. “I don’t want a spanking,” he whined.

“None of us do. You’ll live.”

“I’ve never been spanked before.”

“The first time’s always hard.” Mace squeezed Cotton’s shoulder. “Why don’t you call Brad? I’m sure you’ll feel better after you talk to him.”

“I can’t. I can’t go through with it.” Cotton buried his face in his hands.

Mace bit back the urge to turn this kid over his knee and be done with it. It was a spanking, not a lynching, and surely not worth this much angst. “Cotton, give me the number, and I’ll call.”

“No, I can’t go back.” Cotton said between his arms.

“Stop it,” Mace said, trying to make his voice sound like Trent’s when he was one step from a spanking. “Give me the number. Walking around like a waif and stealing dinner is not an option.”

Mace heard Cotton take a sharp breath before he rattled off a phone number. “He’ll be at the office.”

Mace pulled the phone over and dialed. A receptionist answered and put him on hold before he could get a word in edgewise. He poured another cup of coffee for both of them while he listened to a recorded message on Comfortis, a new oral flea control without dangerous parasite residue on your pet’s coat. 

Finally a young woman came on the line, “How may I help you?”

“Can I speak with Dr. Roberts?”

“I’ll see. He’s with a client.”

“Don’t put me on hold again,” Mace said quickly. “I’m a friend of Cotton’s, and he’s here with me.” 

“I’ll get him,” she said quickly.

Mace heard the phone hit the counter and then the start of a recorded message on heartworm prevention.

A slightly breathless voice came on the phone as if he had just run up a flight of stairs. “This is Dr. Roberts.”

“Mace Dewey. Cotton’s right here. I’ll put him on.” Mace shoved the phone into Cotton’s hand, and curled his reluctant guest’s fingers around the receiver. “Talk to him.”

Mace shifted to the far side of the store to give Cotton some privacy. Mace assisted the few straggling customers with final book purchases and coffee to go. Trent came in carrying a box of books and looking bedraggled, his wet hair drying at crazy angles on his head.

“Who’s he?” Trent asked, gesturing toward the phone as he set the box down on the counter. “Most of the good stuff went for too much money. I’m starved; the hotdog vendor looked like I needed to call the health department on him.”

“That’s Cotton. He’s a stray brat,” Mace mouthed. “He’s talking to his partner."

“Guys,” Cotton said tentatively. “How do I tell him to get here?”

Trent made a motion for the phone, and Mace heard him rapidly detailing directions to their home. Cotton made an effort to slip back over to Mace, but Trent captured him by his belt loops. “Hang on, kid. I need you to promise that you won’t do another vanishing act.” 

Cotton nodded, his body language shouting that he wanted to get as far away from this top as possible. Wait till he meets the others, Mace thought with a grin. He'll be hiding in the attic until Brad shows up for him.

With three people, they made short work of prepping the food and the store for tomorrow. Sometime between the carrying of boxes and the chopping of vegetables, Trent had managed to get Mace and Cotton to spill the story of Cotton’s attempt to abscond with lunch and his appalling lack of outerwear. Trent just smiled his lopsided, lazy smile but didn’t scold either of them. Mace wasn’t sure if he’d get an earful in private about not following standard procedures with a theft, but he could tell from Trent’s easy touching, the hand on his shoulder and the fingers carding through his hair, that serious trouble wasn’t brewing.

They drove the short distance back to the house in comfortable silence. Cotton frequently glanced at the dashboard clock as if he hoped to speed up time to his partner’s arrival. Mace knew that if he were in Cotton’s situation he wold be longing for his partner, but also dreading the impending showdown. As they drew into the driveway, an unknown silver car with an elaborate grill was parked, nearly blocking the entrance to the drive.

“Wow a Rolls!” Cotton said. “Who drives those fancy wheels?”

Neither Mace nor Trent were interested in cars; Mace could give detailed specs on pickup trucks and argue their various merits for pulling horse trailers, but cars were cars.  A small, slight man opened the door and moved toward their vehicle. Even from the rear windows, Mace could tell he was wearing an expensive, charcoal gray suit and that he was angry. He strode toward the car, the rain splattering on his wavy, blond hair. He knocked on the window before Trent had a chance to put the vehicle in park. 

“Where’s Luke?” The man demanded, pushing his way into the vehicle as Trent opened the door.

“Who are you?” Trent asked as he exited the vehicle.

“George Griffith, Luke’s father. And who are you?” George Griffith was staring at Trent with disdain, as if he was no more than the hired help. In his world of five hundred dollar shoes and multi thousand dollar suits, Trent’s faded jeans and sweater worn threadbare at the elbows probably classed him with temporary gardeners and illegal immigrants hovering at the edge of society.

“I’m Trent Long. I live here.”

Mace climbed out of the car and stood next to his partner. From Trent’s posture and the hard set to his jaw, Mace knew he was reining in his temper. Cotton stood behind both men, trying to stay out of the line of fire. Nervous anxiety from the escalation of tension radiated on his face.

“Jesus,” Griffith swore. "What is this, some kind of gay commune?”

“Mr. Griffith, swearing will not be necessary,” Trent said in his most patient voice. A voice that Mace new meant his partner was hanging on to his temper by the barest thread. In the old days, he’d gone and re-stacked hay, chopped firewood, or vanished into the wilderness to research a new article for one of the many outdoor magazines for which he freelanced. Trent jammed his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mace and I rent the third floor apartment. The third young man is Mace’s friend."

Mace could see his housemates winding their way down the path from the college. They had their jacket collars turned up against the rain and were crowded under two large golf umbrellas. Mace hoped Luke would spot the vehicle and warn the others of the impending belligerence. Unfortunately the vehicle was parked at an angle that would make it hard to spot until they turned into the driveway.

Luke was the first to notice his father and instinctively stepped closer to his partner Tilden.

Griffith turned around to face his son. “Get in the car. We’re going.”

“No,” Luke said quietly. “I live here.” 

Tilden tightened his arm around Luke’s shoulder. “Mr. Griffith, Luke lives with me. He only leaves if he wants to, and I believe he has told you no.” Tilden Blake was tall and lean. Shielded under the giant golf umbrella with a briefcase in his hand, he hardly looked a figure who would pick a fight, but Mace could tell by the set of Tilden’s jaw that he would fight before he’d let Luke go. 

“Luke, get in the car. I’m taking you home. You’ve already disgraced the family enough. There’s no need to make a scene. And you.” Griffith wheeled to face Tilden, waggling his finger at Tilden and turning a brilliant shade of red. “You're like all academics. You talk a big game, but can’t function outside your perfect ivory tower world. You’re a professor, and your partner, your brat is flunking. I don’t know how you have the nerve to call yourself a top.”

“Mr. Griffith, you're making quite a spectacle for the neighbors. May I suggest we take this conversation inside,” Tilden said in a steady voice.

“No,” Griffith shouted with such force that spittle flew onto Tilden’s shirt and shoes. George Griffith physically looked similar to Luke: small boned, with blond hair, and wide blue eyes, but the resemblance stopped at the physical side. Mace had seen Luke upset, and he’d never turned into a rabid maniac. “Get in the car, boy. I won’t tell you again. It’s more than time that you learn to obey me.”

“No,” Luke repeated more forcefully. 

Milton and Trent were moving to try to add their protection and authority to Tilden’s. George Griffith made a grab for his son. Tilden, his hands full of distraught partner and umbrella, was defenseless as he tried to push Luke behind him. Griffith swung a wild punch, connecting with a crunch against Tilden’s nose. Tilden staggered back and threw his hands up to protect his face. Blood was dripping down his chin and rapidly coloring his shirt collar a dark red. Griffith grabbed at his son, who jerked from his grasp, spitting like an angry tiger. Somehow in the melee Luke had grabbed the fallen umbrella and was now swinging it like a broadsword at his father.

“Keep your fucking hands off me. You can go back to your banks and fucking boardrooms. I’ll take my academic any day.” Luke’s words were becoming increasingly angry as he charged at his father, years of frustration pouring out. “I did it your way for twenty years, and it got me fucking nowhere. Tilden and the guys here have taught me more about myself in thirty days than I ever learned from you. I’m not you. I don’t give a flying fuck about your money, prestige, or power. I’d rather live in a cardboard box than in a house with you.” Luke spat the final you as if it were the worst curse word in the English language.

“You ungrateful wretch! I’ve paid for your schooling, your clothes, your mistakes, and this is how you treat me. You wouldn’t have graduated from high school if I hadn’t been your father. No more! I won’t have our good name abused any longer. You’re no son of mine!” Griffith shouted, still trying to grab Luke.

Tilden, despite dripping blood, finally managed to capture Luke; Trent and Milton bodily pushed George Griffith into his car. Milton had one hand on Griffith’s shoulder the other on the fine leather interior of the door.

“You raised that boy for twenty years, and in five minutes you destroyed whatever relationship you ever had. He is no longer your son, but Tilden and Mike’s partner and my friend; we will protect him. Now get off our property before I call the police.”

“Tell him to expect a call from my lawyer,” Griffith said as he plucked Milton’s hand from his shoulder and tried to recovery his dignity. “He has made his choice and is no longer my son, no longer heir to the family fortune. I hope you are prepared to pick up his expenses,” Griffith sneered. “He will never get another penny from me; I don’t throw good money after bad.”

 Milton slammed the door and stepped away. He watched as the car sped down the drive and turned toward the main road.  

Luke was folded into Tilden’s arms, his face buried in his partner’s chest; Tilden’s chin rested on his blond hair. Blood still dripped from Tilden’s nose and now landed in soft splats on Luke’s hair. Mike hovered next to his two partners when Tilden caught his hand and pulled him against Luke. They stood a huddle of bodies, Luke no longer visible behind the two taller men. Trent moved back to where Mace and Cotton were still standing next to the car with its doors flung open. He reached in, turned off the engine, and pulled out the keys.

“Come on guys; let’s go in before we get any wetter. Milton’s got them.” 

Mace could see Milton’s hand resting on his friend’s back as he began the slow process of shepherding the clump of men toward the house. They were walking as one mass, a tangle of legs in khakis and faded blue jeans, Milton’s big frame erect and wary, a half step behind.

“Inside guys; they need some privacy,” Trent prodded, his tone still light, but he leaned his hip into his partner as if moving an errant horse back from a stall door.

“OK. I get it.” Mace grabbed Cotton’s hand and pulled him toward the house. “And you thought a few loose birds were a problem. We have barroom brawls in the driveway."

“Mace, stop scaring our guest,” Trent said, stepping close enough that a swat was a distinct possibility. “I’ve never seen a fistfight in the driveway, and I don’t think that man will be back.” Trent bulldozed them into the kitchen and set them to work preparing dinner. “We’ll make pizza. I’m sure that will satisfy everyone.” Unspoken was that it might be the only thing that a distraught Luke would consider eating and the grating of cheese and chopping of toppings would keep unskilled young men busy and distracted in the kitchen. 

   

*****

 

Milton sorted clothes onto an armchair, keeping an eye on the tangle of bodies clutching each other on the bed. Tilden had grabbed a handkerchief, and the bleeding had slowed to a slow drip, but Luke was openly sobbing, and Mike was hardly in better condition, sniffling and swallowing tears. Three men thrown together by an idiotic television show and now enmeshed in a tangle of family history that might take a lifetime to solve. “Boys,” Milton said, drawing Mike back with a hand on his shoulder and tugging Luke by his wrist. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a shower. It’s big enough for both of you together, and I’ll give Tilden a hand and get some ice on those bruises." Mike took the clothes Milton offered and headed reluctantly toward the stairs, but Luke clung to Tilden.

“Milton, Luke can help me clean up. Will you take care of Mike,” Tilden said in a soft voice.”

Milton looked at Tilden and Luke and nodded. He’d hoped to get the boys distracted and away from their injured partner for a minute, but Luke seemed braced to resist and Mike was starting to dig in. “Come on, Mike. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I’m not a child. I can take myself upstairs. I don’t want to go.”

Milton gritted his teeth at the final whine, but kept his voice light. “Humor me, I’m a bossy top, and I want you upstairs.”

“Leave me alone.”

Milton swung Mike around and landed a swat on his hip, not hard, but he hoped it would encourage a more compliant attitude. Milton whispered in Mike’s ear, “Neither of your partners need to see you have a major battle with me right now; but if you push it, I will spank you and carry you upstairs. Your taller than Sheldon but not much heavier. It would be awkward, but I could manage. Please, Mike.”

Mike nodded, shaking his wet brown hair into his eyes, and let Milton bundle him upstairs and into the bathroom. “OK, you bullied me up here. Now get out. If you think I need washed, you got another think coming.”

Milton sat down on the toilet, pulled Mike between his knees, and wrapped his arms around the struggling young man. “Settle. I’m not letting you go until you settle down.”

“Fine,” Mike spat. You’re stronger. I’ll stand here.” He was quivering with anger.

“Mike, I’m not the enemy here, and I’m giving you a lot of allowance for what happened today, but this behavior will stop. I won’t warn you again.”

Mike stood between Milton’s knees, his chest heaving. “I’m still. Can I take my shower now?”

“You may.” Milton released him but continued talking. “Mike, your parents have consistently left you behind while they roam the globe. Did what Luke lost today remind you of what you never had?”

“Stick with history. You’re a lot better at that than psychology.”

“Fair enough. I never knew my mom or dad,” Milton said softly. “Luke’s dad may be incomprehensibly incompetent in that role, but he had one in his life perhaps for worse rather than for better. I think you can help him adjust. Come talk to me when you're ready.” Milton got up and shut the bathroom door behind him. He leaned against the wall and let out a sigh. Two young, volatile submissives in the middle of a brawl, an injured top, Trent with somebody in tow that he’d never seen before but had looked on the verge of throwing up, Sheldon due home shortly—tinder to the fire. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, unconsciously mimicking the posture of his grandfather when he was at his most resolute.    

 

 

The kitchen smelled of frying onions and peppers. Trent was flipping a pizza crust in the air, expertly catching it while Mace stirred something in the frying pan. A slight boy with silver blond hair stood at the counter haphazardly chopping mushrooms and watching Trent. “Hi, I’m Milton Brown,” Milton said, reaching out to shake the boy’s hand.

“Cotton,” the boy whispered, looking at the offered hand as if it might be a poisonous snake.

“I seem to have forgotten my manners,” Trent said. “That’s Alfred Conrad Harrison, better known as Cotton; Mace invited him over to wait for his partner." Trent gave Cotton a rather pointed look, and he managed a feeble hi and shook Milton’s offered hand. “His partner lives in Providence, so depending on the traffic he should be here in about twenty minutes if he left immediately after I spoke to him on the phone.”

Milton raised an eyebrow in surprise, but remained silent when he saw Trent shake his head once.

“Mace, Cotton, why don’t you get these two pizzas topped. Don’t get too crazy with the toppings, only Tilden can stand the herring, and it makes the kitchen stink,” Trent said with an easy grin. “I’m going to help Milton get some tea and ice for Tilden.”

“Well, what’s the scoop with Cotton?” Milton said as soon as they entered the hall with the tea. “I assume he’s a submissive.”

“That’s only half of it,” Trent said with a languid grin. “He got in a panic about some birds this morning and fled from home with no wallet or jacket. Mace took him under his wing when he tried to eat and run at the store. Oh, and it gets better from here. He and his partner are on that blasted TV show also. Cotton’s never been physically disciplined, and his partner promised him a spanking.”

Milton groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “What is this? Did we sign up to live in a soap opera that I don’t know about? Let’s see we’ve got one boy whose father went into an incoherent rage and clobbered his partner. A second partner who is justifiably unglued because he’s caught in the middle. And then just to add interest we have Mace picking up stray little subs who have major issues with their partners. Have I missed anything? Have Sheldon and Mace gotten in a fight that I don’t know about, suffered sudden amnesia, or have secret lovers in Chile?”

“No, I think that about sums it up,” Trent said with a chuckle. At least you can keep your sense of humor about it.”

“Maybe, but if those TV people show up—I won’t promise anything.”

“Mace and I will deal with them if anything happens. I wonder if we could rope and hogtie them,” Trent said with a grin. “I’ll grab Sheldon when he comes in; you deal with Tilden and his partners. Deal?”

“Deal, but I think I got the short end of the stick.”

Trent shrugged. “You’re more experienced.”       

“Make me feel old again,” Milton said with a smile as he headed to the bedroom.

Tilden had managed to coerce Luke into the shower, and all three were sitting in the bed, hair still dripping. Tilden rubbed the towel through Luke’s blond curls, one arm draped casually over his partner’s shoulders. Mike plucked at the hem of his damp T-shirt, sitting close to both partners but not touching.

Milton set the tea down on the nightstand and passed the ice pack to Tilden. “Put that on your nose for at least fifteen minutes,” Milton said in his most toppy tone.

“Bossy, isn’t he,” Tilden said with a smile directed at Mike.

“Brats,” Milton growled, “and that includes you, my friend.” Milton gave Tilden a light swat on his thigh. “Getting in a fistfight in the driveway.”

“Bossy top,” Tilden said with a grin.

“You haven’t seen anything yet” Milton replied. “Mike, you need to change your shirt; it’s soaked. Using a towel before dressing is always helpful.”

Mike started to make a face, but Milton was too quick, hoisting him off the bed and handing him a dry shirt. 

“Try to help me here,” Milton whispered into Mike’s ear as he peeled the wet shirt off Tilden’s lanky partner. “Boys, Trent and Mace are making pizza. I’d recommend you go help them unless you like scary things on your pizza like garbanzo beans, smoked fish, tempeh, canned peas, and bean sprouts,” Milton said loudly and with forced cheer.

Mike gave Milton a sour look. “Why don’t you just say you want to talk to Tilden alone, and we aren’t invited. Before you get all dominant and swat me, I’m going. Come on Luke. We’ve been uninvited.” Mike grabbed Luke’s wrist and towed him out of the room, muttering under his breath the entire time.

Milton waited for the door to slam before he spoke to Tilden. “That boy is going to to end up over my lap if he’s not careful.”

“He’s very insecure with Luke hanging on to me like a limpet.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to work with him. But you know as well as I do he needs hard boundaries.”

“You know I trust you,” Tilden said. "Do what you think is best."

Milton nodded. “How’s your nose feel?”

“Sore, but I don’t think it’s broken.”

“You’re going to have a nice shiner also.”

“Poor Luke, he really didn’t need this today. Between the television show, his academic difficulties, and our volatile third partner, he’s been put through the wringer.”

“Threesomes are always difficult. Threesomes assembled at the drop of the hat with almost no knowledge of potential hazardous past baggage are beyond arduous. But all things considered they seem to be holding up.” Milton said. 

“I hope I hold up. Those boys deserve a top who can do them justice.”

“Don’t you start on the self-doubting road. We already have chaos. Now keep the ice on. I’ll go rescue Trent from the five boys he’s managing.”

“There’s only four with Sheldon.”

You probably didn’t notice in all the ruckus that Mace brought home a stray.”

“What?”

“Yes, exactly. It gets better. The boy is on the same TV show. His partner Brad Roberts should be here shortly.”

“The vet?” Tilden asked.

“I don’t know. Trent knows the details.”

“If it’s who I think it is, he seemed like a sensible guy. He’d never been in this kind of relationship before.”

“That would make sense with the information I have,” Milton said thoughtfully. “Keep the ice on for ten minutes. I’m going back out into the fray. Wish me luck.”

Tilden smiled and waved his hand in a shooing motion at his fellow top.

 

 

The kitchen was remarkably calm with five brats roaming around. Sheldon must have arrived only minutes ago as he was still in his work clothes, his tie loosened and askew. Trent had corralled Luke and Mike into preparing the salad. Luke was chopping carrots with shaking hands, occasionally blinking back tears, while Mike was tossing vegetables from the refrigerator to the counter. Trent was valiantly ignoring Mike’s bad humor, striding back and forth between his sous-chefs giving orders.

“Mike, come help me put the sheets on in the turret bedroom. Cotton and his partner might not want to drive back to Providence tonight.” Milton said.

“You just want to get me alone, so you can knock the stuffing out of me,” Mike shot back, slamming the head of lettuce down on the counter and sending two tomatoes rolling onto the floor.

In one long stride, Milton snagged Mike and landed two hard swats on his rump. “Excuse us, gentlemen. I need to speak to this young man in private.” Milton hustled Mike up the stairs and down the long hallway to the circular guest room located in the turret. This room was hardly ever used as guests had to go through the second floor’s study, a corridor that doubled as a micro kitchen, and a half bath to reach it. Milton shut each set of doors as he pulled Mike to his destination.

“All right, young man, do you think you can stand in the corner and pull yourself together, or do I need to spank you?”

“You’re not my top,” Mike spat. 

“No, I’m not, but I live here. I think that gives me some rights and responsibilities.”

“Rights, responsibilities—” Mike didn’t get any further because Milton landed two hard swats, taking Mike’s breath away.

“I’m going to give you a choice here. You can lean over the bed or come over my lap.” Milton had wrapped his arms around Mike, pulling him tight to his chest. “You’re safe with us no matter what happens.” Milton stood quiet, his arms tight around Tilden’s young partner. “So, what will it be?” he finally asked.

“Neither’s not an option,” Mike said with an attempt at a cheeky grin.

“What do you think?”

“Over your lap,” Mike said almost inaudibly.

Milton sat down on the bed and pulled Mike over his knee. He settled Mike as carefully as possible, trying to give the boy the security Milton knew he needed. “What’s this spanking for?”

“For being as difficult as possible.”

“That about sums it up, but can you give me more specifics?”

“Disobedience, talking back,” Mike faltered. “Making everyone’s life miserable."

“Your making your own life miserable.” Milton bared Mike’s butt and landed ten swats, five on each side exactly over the top of each other. Not a long spanking, but enough to get Mike crying and clutching hard at Milton when he turned Mike upright and hopefully enough to shift Mike’s mood. This sort of spanking was tricky with his own partner; with Tilden’s partner is was a dance in a minefield. It wasn’t about sex or even entirely role play, but some nebulous ground which involved helping a submissive stay calm and focussed. Milton didn’t say anything; he just held Mike against him and tried to project the strange combination of caring and dominance that he hoped would settle Mike. 

Mike rubbed his eyes with his hands and choked back the final few sobs. “I’m sorry.”

“Everything is forgiven. But remember if Tilden, Trent and I have to put you over our laps every day to convince you that you’re safe with us, and that you won’t be passed to the next person as soon as you become inconvenient like yesterday’s trash, we will.”

Mike gulped hard at that thought and brushed his hand over his sore butt. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I hope not,” Milton said with a chuckle. Go wash your face. Cotton already thinks he landed in an insane asylum. We don’t need to scare him more.”

Mike slid off Milton’s knee and took a small step toward the bathroom. Milton could see the boy’s hesitancy. He wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulders, guided him into the tiny half bath, and wiped Mike’s face with a wet washcloth.

“Better?”

Mike nodded but kept his hand firmly in Milton’s. They made the bed. Milton smoothed the patchwork quilt and fluffed the pillows before guiding Mike out of the bedroom.

The door chimes rang just as they were reaching the head of the stairs. Milton called down, “I’ll get it,” as he trotted down the stairs, his arm still around Mike’s shoulders. Milton opened the door to a man of average height still dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck and a couple of used syringes poking from his pocket. “You must be Dr. Roberts,” Milton said, shaking his hand.

“Call me Brad. I’m only Dr. Roberts at the office. Are you Trent?” 

“No, I’m Milton, and this is Mike. Trent and Mace are in the kitchen with Cotton. I think they’re putting the final touches on dinner. I assume you’ll be staying.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Brad said, fiddling with the ends of his lab coat.

“Nonsense. You haven’t met Mace or Trent. They’d be insulted if you didn’t stay. I know your partner would be upset since he got roped into helping, and I expect your hungry. It looks like you ran straight out of the office.”

“You’re right,” Brad said with a look of chagrin. “I’ve been a little distracted today.”

“That’s understandable,” Milton said smoothly, “but Cotton’s going to expect and need you to be in control. Give me your vet stuff, and I’ll put it in the closet. Then at least it won’t look like you ran out the door without any forethought.” Milton watched Brad stare at him; Milton could see the vet assessing the rapid flow of orders and deciding they had merit. Without a word, Brad handed Milton his white coat, stethoscope, and syringes.

“He’s always this bossy,” Mike said, catching Brad’s eye. “It’s worse if you live here.”

“Don’t tell tales,” Milton said with a laugh. “Go get Cotton; I’m sure he’s impatient to see his partner.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Chapter 2**

 

Milton watched the circle of men in the firelight. Mace and Trent were collecting the final plates from dinner and coaxing the final slice of cheese pizza on Brad. All the pizzas had been a hit, even the cholesterol topper with ham, summer sausage, pepperoni, Italian sausage, and extra cheese. Cotton was squashed into the armchair near the fire. He played restlessly with Brad’s zoo animal tie now that he had no pizza in his hand. Tilden was on the floor, his back against the hearth with Luke curled in his lap like a cat. Sheldon bounced about after Trent and Mace. Milton had put a heavy hand on his partner’s shoulder to remind him to not send soda sloshing from glasses or pass pizzas like flying pies. Mike poked at the fire as if prodding an angry bear, sending sparks showering onto the hearth. 

The fire and the meal had settled the worst of the tension, but still a restlessness filled the air like the quick winds before a summer squall. Milton reached out and grabbed Mike’s shirt before he could stir the fire again and plunked him down on the sofa next to him.  “Let’s not set the house on fire. Haven’t we had enough excitement for the day?”

Sheldon clattered back from the kitchen with a plate of cookies and looked at Milton, unsure where to go with his spot taken. Milton glanced toward his feet and mouthed, “please.” Milton didn’t want to shift Mike as he could feel the young man relaxing, allowing his head to droop against Milton’s shoulder.

Milton saw Sheldon nod and give him a faint smile. For all of Sheldon’s antics, he did understand the dynamics of these relationships, and while he might voice comments that were best left unspoken and not fade into a quiet corner, he liked Mike and Luke and worshipped Tilden. He would never do anything to hurt any of them.

Sheldon sank down on his knees next to Milton. “Do I make a good sub?”

“Not hardly,” Milton said with a smirk and kissed the top of his hair. “Do you think story telling would settle this bunch?” Milton watched the men shift in the flickering firelight, waving like grain in a light wind under the setting sun.

“Ghost stories,” Sheldon said.

“I prefer to sleep tonight,” Trent said from across the room. "How about a story from your childhood, Milton?”

“Little House in the Big Woods meets Boys Town,” Sheldon snarked.

“Behave,” Milton mock smacked Sheldon on the head.

Brad stirred and started to pull Cotton to his feet. “We better be going; we have a long drive ahead of us.”

“We made up the spare bedroom. Driving will be much easier in the morning after the rain's tapered off.” Milton tried to balance authority with a gracious host. “You’ve both had a hard day that’s not over yet, and it’s no trouble for you to stay.” Milton didn’t know Brad well enough to pull him aside and bluntly tell him his partner needed spanked, but he hoped he would catch the broad strokes of the conversation. Cotton was restless and clinging hard. Further delay might pull the two of them apart, and Tilden’s initial assessment of Brad seemed correct, a sincere, sweet man floundering in his new role as a top.

“Can we stay?” Cotton pleaded.

Brad nodded. Milton knew that those few words convinced Brad to stay more than any rational argument about slick roads and driving when exhausted. Milton rummaged through the stories in his mind; some were his own, while others had been passed down through the family on winter nights in front of a crackling fireplace. Milton cleared his throat and began a story of his own childhood. 

 

*****

 The Green Mountain Boys

 

When I’d heard the footsteps, I knew we couldn’t be quick enough. I should’ve known earlier by the sound that the steps were crossing the cobble courtyard into the old barn, a vast wood and stone structure where we stored the season’s hay and where I lay hidden.  A few stray chickens wandered on the floor, searching for bugs and hiding eggs in the centuries of hay droppings that had been smashed into the dirt and manure floor until the entire surface was a uniform dusty brown. Feet made a different sound when they crossed the smooth concrete of the milking parlor and the rows of stanchions for the prized Ayrshires and Brown Swiss. My family had been running dairy cattle on this rocky hillside of Vermont since before the Revolutionary War and Granddad, like his father before him looked with disdain at the herds of Holsteins that now crowded the hillsides. Factory farmed white water he called it, not enough butterfat for a decent glass of milk, let alone a nice cup of cream. I didn’t dare tell him that skim milk was all the rage; that would be heresy in our family.

I could see Grandfather’s shadow in the barn door, still tall but stooped at the shoulders from years bent over attaching the milking machines. A full head of gray hair was covered by a baseball cap from our local Landmark. I didn’t need to see the cap to know the brim would be sweat stained and crushed beyond recognition. As always, a piece of timothy hay was clamped between his teeth. When he was deep in thought, he’d pull the hay from his mouth, examine it, and then jam it back between his teeth. 

He’d spotted Mark. I could tell by the way he headed directly for him. Mark was a city boy, and by the time I’d recognized the danger there hadn’t been time to help him into the second level of the loft. I’d played in this barn since I was a toddler, and I’d instinctively scaled the rotten farm gates that divided the tiers of the loft. I was safely tucked in a nook between bales of timothy and clover; Mark was below, exposed, and scrambling for his shirt and pants, his briefs still around his knees. My shoes, socks, and shirt lay below as noticeable as a colorful banner held in front of a charging cavalry. As least, I'd managed to grab my pants.

Grandfather stood in the barn aisle, hands on his hips, chewing on a  scraggily piece of grass. He pulled the  stem from his mouth, spat on the floor, wiped his mouth, and replaced the stem.

“Mark, Son, come on down.” 

At least he wasn’t shouting. Mark turned three shades of crimson and tried to hide his exposure with his hands as he reached behind him searching for his jeans.

“Mark, it’s not like I haven’t seen it all before. Go shower in the milk house. You don’t want to put those clothes back on with hay, sweat, and who knows what else all over you.”

Mark stuffed his feet back in his boots with no socks, grabbed the remains of his clothes, and scrambled down the ladder, trying to both hold the ladder rungs and strategically cover himself with his T-shirt. Mark’s head was down, and he looked as close to tears as I’d ever seen him. 

Mark was a tough guy, and he didn’t cry easily. Last year he’d been knocked flat by a baseball. He'd dusted himself off and hit the the next ball into the parking lot. He lived with his aunt and uncle on the other side of the valley. Rumor was that his parents had sent him out of the city after he’d gotten into some major trouble. The speculation ran wild. Had he been busted for drugs? Was he running a prostitution ring out of his parents’ basement? I knew the truth, and it wasn’t nearly so glamorous. His grades were in the cellar, and his parents had found out that when he said he was over studying with the stockbroker’s son he was really cruising the party scene with his brother’s roommate from college. Goodbye Times Square—hello maple syrup and cow shit.

Grandfather reached out and grasped the back of Mark’s neck in his big hand. He whispered something in Mark’s ear that I couldn’t hear. Mark nodded and Grandfather tousled his hair before he let him go. Mark scrambled for the safety of the milk house, only looking back once when he cleared the doors of the barn. Grandfather wiped his hands on his manure encrusted coveralls. He pulled his work gloves from his back pocket and then replaced them on the opposite side. I could see his lips move, but I couldn’t here the words. Finally he looked up, right at the bales that I crouched behind.

“Milton, I know you’re up there. Go in the kitchen and wait for me.” His tone was eerily quiet. The only time I’d ever heard that voice was when Uncle Doug had almost gotten his hand caught in the tractor’s power take off. Grandfather had been white as he’d ordered Doug in a voice barely above a whisper to take care of the calves in the far barn. I’d been told to put the tractor away in the bottom barn. It hadn’t made much sense as we only had a few more post holes to dig. Doug hadn’t questioned Grandfather’s order. He’d just wiped the sleeve of his coat over his face and hurried off. I’d started to argue about finishing the job, and Grandfather had shot me a look that I thought could peel paint off the wall. Needless to say, I'd put the tractor away posthaste.

I scrambled from my hiding place and collected my boots and shirt before I climbed the final ladder to the ground. Grandfather didn’t say anything. He just pointed to the house before he turned on his heels and marched out toward the high pastures and the brown and white dots grazing on the hillside.

I kicked off my boots and stacked them by the door. Doug’s large boots were already in the pile; he must be upstairs somewhere. I sat at the table, resting my chin in my hands.  For me, the kitchen had always been a place of sanctuary. At Christmas, I baked cookies with Uncle Doug or Grandfather. We made gingerbread farmers and acres of racks full of Brown Swiss cattle. We were the only house that forsook the traditional wreath and star shapes for cattle. The Brown Swiss were the easiest as their coat color matched lightly baked gingerbread. Some years we were more adventuresome and branched out to create Ayrshires, Belted Galloways, and even the much derided Holsteins. In the summer, the kitchen smelled of sugar and berries as Doug prepared the jam that graced our table throughout the year and was sent to far off relatives for gifts along with Vermont’s famed maple syrup and recipes for fluffy, light pancakes every time.

This was first time I’d ever sat in the kitchen with dread. Last spring a few sparks of lightning had cancelled baseball practice. The storm never came, and the air had cleared by the time I’d made it home. I’d run up the porch steps, following my usual routine of grabbing a drink and dropping my bag in the kitchen before going to the barn and offering a hand. The outer door was open, but the screen was on the latch. As my hand moved to knock, I heard a wail and a choked sob. I could just see a portion of the kitchen from where I stood, the old beat up gas range with the cherry red kettle perched on the back burner, the wide counter stacked high with early spring lettuce and spinach, the worn pine flooring grooved by years of dog nails and chairs scratching across its surface, and Grandfather sitting on a chair with Uncle Doug draped over his leg. Grandfather’s hand landed on Doug’s rump with a resounding crack, and I fled, closing my ears to the wails from the kitchen. I ran up the rock strewn hill, finally stopping at the old spring house, where I sat with my arms wrapped around my knees watching the idyllic scene, worthy of a picture postcard, of the cattle grazing below me a splash of spring wildflowers blooming in the fence row.

I think they must have seen me, but no one mentioned it. I returned to the house at my usual time. All was quiet; there was no blood in the sink or battered Doug hiding in the closest. It was Uncle Doug who later that night asked if I was OK. I told him I was fine, but in all honesty, he looked more fine than I did. He raced through the barn work with his usual speed and stamina; the only change that I could spot is that Grandfather suggested he hit the sack early and take a warm bath with epsom salts since they’d had such a hard day. Yeah, a hard day getting whacked.

I now wondered if that fate lay ahead for me. Neither Grandfather nor Uncle Doug had ever hit me. I’d been grounded a few times for the usual teenage things, and when I’d gotten a traffic ticket for running a red light, Grandfather in a fit of creativity had made me copy the D.M.V. study guide five times. All in all they frequently told me that I was an easy teenager and a joy to raise. I did my share of the work and was tops in school. Now that was all about to end.

I heard Doug start down the stairs. “Hey, I thought you were out playing with Mark,” he said with his trademark wide grin.

“He had to go home early,” I muttered into the table.

Uncle Doug didn’t miss much. He was down the remaining stairs in two bounds, and I felt his hand plunk reassuringly on my back. “Oh, honey, did you two have a fight?”

“No, I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” I said in a tone that all parents know as teenage angst.

Doug’s hand rubbed a circle on the small of my back and he leaned forward and kissed the back of my sweat soaked neck. “I’m here when you’re ready to talk,” he whispered into my ear. 

He hadn’t kissed me since I finished grade school. If I hadn’t felt so wrung out, I think I would’ve flinched. Instead I leaned into his hand and lapped up the comfort. When Mark had first met my grandfather and uncle, he’d teased me mercilessly for being blind to the fact that they were a couple. But now as Doug rested his hand on my back and broadly hinted that my relationship had disintegrated, I felt like a naive fool for not seeing  the truth of their relationship. The two beds, as Mark had succinctly put it, were just for show. I’d seen them put a hand around each other’s waist or Grandfather push the hair back on Doug’s forehead and drop a light kiss when he went off to bed, but I’d never seen anything overtly sexual. And then again, the farmers of Vermont were not a demonstrative people. Heterosexual couples didn’t paw each other in public either.

I pondered these new facts as I waited for Grandfather to arrive in the kitchen. Given Grandfather and Uncle Doug were gay, why was Grandfather angry for finding me with Mark? It wasn’t like I could get him pregnant. He wasn’t angry with Mark, brusk perhaps but not angry. But he was white hot furious with me. I was still trying to work out this puzzle when I heard the screen door bang.

“Doug, why don’t you get the basket and go harvest the tomatoes. We want to get as many in before it frosts as possible,” Grandfather said.

It seemed like an idiotic request, but Doug swung the basket over his arm and left without comment. The counter was strewn with tomatoes, and today had been well into the seventies, even though it was a week after Labor Day.

“Milton, we need to talk.” Grandfather’s voice was soft, and his eyes looked troubled, not angry, but I went on the offensive. I didn’t want to end up tipped over his knee if I could avoid it.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you and Doug were lovers?” I shouted as if it were a vile accusation.

“You never asked,” Grandfather said mildly. “And I thought you’d figured it out when you were being so open with Mark.” 

His calmness knocked the fight right out of me. I remembered the knowing smiles that Doug and Grandfather had given me when Mark had come over to study and the sudden insistence that I study with him at the kitchen table instead of up in my room. I’d thought they’d wanted to be hospitable, make sure they fed both of us since they knew I could become lost in my studies and forget to eat. No, they’d wanted to prevent excess necking just as if I’d brought a girl home. 

“You knew about Mark and me?”

“It was obvious if you knew what to look for,” Grandfather said with a small shrug. 

“Then why are you angry with me?” I asked, confused.

“I’m not angry, disappointed, not angry. Do you love Mark?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have a duty to protect him, and you failed.” Grandfather’s voice had become sterner and deeper as he spoke of protection.

“I don’t understand.”

“You help Mark with his schoolwork?”

“Yes,” I said, puzzled. Grandfather knew I was helping Mark.  

“He doesn’t do it unless he’s with you.”

“He finds school hard, and he wants a baseball scholarship. School’s easy for me.”

“Have you ever punished him for not doing his schoolwork?”

“What?” I exclaimed. "I’m his friend, not his dad."

Grandfather pulled out a chair and sat down next to me. “Didn’t you tell him that you wouldn’t go with him to the movies if he didn’t finish his math?”

I groaned, remembering the incident last spring. We’d both been wanting to see the new spy thriller since the previews started appearing in December. Amazingly it opened in our small town theater amongst the stale popcorn and crackling sound system the same week it opened in the great cities of L.A. and New York. We’d been planning to go opening weekend for months when Mark failed his math test on Thursday. I remembered when I asked Mark as I caught him coming from class, the test crumpled in his hand. He claimed that he’d done all right, but I knew from his edginess it’d been a disaster. As usual, he spent Friday evening with me. I’d put his math test out of my mind, looking forward to a late night in front of the television, but he came in the door carrying his math book and shoved the crinkled test in my hand. There was more red on it than his original pencil marks. The only hopeful sign was the math teacher was also the baseball coach, and he’d offered to allow Mark to retake the exam on Monday.

“Oh, Mark, it wasn’t so all right, was it?”

“No,” he flushed. “I’m sorry about lying to you earlier.”

“Please don’t lie to me again,” I said, giving him a piercing glare before affectionately ruffling his hair. 

We sat down and went through the test. Mark as usual was having a terrible time concentrating and kept babbling about pitchers’ E.R.A.’s and the new rookie playing for Boston who was going to break the curse of the Bambino.

“Mark, settle down, or we’ll never get finished.”

“I can’t. I hate this.”

“You want to play baseball at Florida,” I interrupted before he could go into a full blown tirade against  algebra II.

He nodded, and I cut him off before he could protest further.

“Well then, as I see it, we review this math today and tomorrow. If it’s not done, we don’t go to the movies.” I stood up when Mark started to complain, and I was now standing with my hip propped against the table and my arms crossed.

Mark looked at me with wide eyes and responded, “Yes, sir.”

He later told me that I sounded frighteningly firm during the whole process—put his dad to shame, as he put it.

Grandfather was right; I had forced Mark to do his math, but what did that have to do with the incident in the barn?

“Milton,” Grandfather said, engulfing my long, slender hand in his large paw, his knuckles swollen and discolored from countless cows bashing and trapping his hands in the headlocks. I could feel the callouses on his palm as he gripped my hand. “I want you to understand that I’m proud of you, and I’m proud of your sexuality, but you’re a top and with that comes some responsibilities.”

I stared at him, perplexed. At that time, I was a naive small town boy. I’d only heard top used in the context of sexual position and then only vaguely and in whispers. I hadn’t had anal sex with Mark. We were going to try it when Grandfather so rudely interrupted. Homosexuality wasn’t actively discriminated against in our little corner of America, but it wasn’t celebrated and was kept discreet. In sex-ed class, Mrs. Sharp had hurriedly mentioned that some girls might be attracted to other girls and that some guys might find their fellow guys interesting before returning to the science of the fallopian tubes.

“I’m not talking about your position during sex, but how you relate to your partner and lover. Mark looks to you for leadership, guidance, and protection, and you failed him. You left him exposed in the lower loft while you hid above him. What if I hadn’t been friendly toward same sex relationships?”

“Sorry,” I murmured, feeling my face redden.

“I know, Son, but today I’m going to physically discipline you. Not because what you did today was a great crime, but because you’re no longer a child. Someday you’ll be disciplining your own partner and lover.” Grandfather’s voice then dropped to a whisper. “You saw me with Doug last May, didn’t you?”

I nodded unable to say more with all the new information that was whirling around my head.

“You need to understand what it feels like to give yourself to the punishment, the trust necessary to be a good top. I failed with your dad. When you were in your crib, I swore I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.” 

Grandfather’s voice broke as he mentioned my dad. From what I knew, their relationship had been tough. Grandma had died in a terrible tractor accident when Dad was still in diapers, and Dad had grown up wild. At seventeen, he’d shacked up with a sixteen-year-old girl, and I was the result. I never knew my dad except for the  one picture with me wrapped in swaddling and the two of them standing over the bassinet. I’d been dropped at my grandfather’s doorstep still in blankets, and neither parent was seen again. When I was ten, a thin, official looking envelope had arrived announcing my dad’s death and subsequent burial in Mexico. Grandfather and Uncle Doug had planted a cherry tree in the orchard. According to the stories, my dad ate bowls of cherries as a child. That tree was never harvested; instead the cherries were left for Dad to pick. According to Grandfather and Uncle Doug, cherries were my dad’s favorite food. The cherries disappeared off the branches every year, but I the skeptic always thought the birds ate them.

“I’m going to put you over my knee and strap you. You will do this someday. I’m doing this because I love you.”  Grandfather bent over and kissed my forehead before he rose and started rummaging through the junk drawer. We kept odds and ends in this drawer: a flashlight with spare batteries, duct tape, a few strands of bailing twine, a rusty pair of wire cutters, and a broken belt without a buckle. I swallowed hard; I now knew why that piece of well oiled leather resided in the drawer.

I saw Grandfather wind the strap around his big fist and then walk over to the table and pull a chair out to the middle of the floor. It was the same place I’d seen him with Doug.

“Take your jeans off and come here,” he said pointing to his left side; Grandfather was left handed. 

Slowly I unbuckled my belt and drew my jeans over my thighs. Grandfather didn’t hurry me, but I could tell by his expression that he wouldn’t wait all day. As I came into reach, he grabbed my wrists and tugged me down over his knees. I could’ve pulled away, but I didn’t. I scrabbled against the hard slick floor to find purchase with my socked feet and fingers as I hung down with my face level with his ankle. His left hand rested on my boxers, and his right hand was firmly tucked around my waist.

“What’s this strapping for?”

“For abandoning Mark, not protecting him.”

“Good boy; remember I’ll never punish you for loving someone.”

Grandfather shifted his leg and my butt rose higher. He brought the strap down hard, ten times in rapid succession like shots from a machine gun. It was over practically before it started. I felt Grandfather lower me to my knees between his legs and wrap his arms around my back. I laid my head on his thighs, and the sobs started. I couldn’t stop myself; I cried great wet tears all over his lap. He said nothing, just hung on to me and occasionally ran his fingers through my hair.

Finally my tears slowed to choked gasps and Grandfather pulled me to my feet. “You’re a good boy. I love you,” he said and kissed me with bruising, claiming firmness under my shaggy bangs. “Splash some water on your face, get your jeans back on, and come help with the milking.”

This was normal Grandfather, brusk and kind. He wrapped his heavy arm around my shoulders as we walked to the milking parlor. Doug had already brought the herd in and was washing a cow’s udder when he spotted us. He stood, walked up to me, pulled me out from under Grandfather’s elbow and gave me a fierce, crushing hug.

“Everything good now?” he whispered into my ear.

“Yeah,” I said, “It’s good.” It was good I realized. Without a doubt, my butt hurt as the tender skin rubbed against my underwear and jeans, but as Grandfather had said I wasn’t a child anymore. Some boys go off to the army or to college to find their manhood. I’d found it in our kitchen.

 

*****

 

Milton look around the living room. Mace and Trent were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the love seat. Sheldon had settled cross-legged at Milton’s feet and was masquerading as an angelic sub. Cotton had crawled completely onto Brad’s lap and was buried under his arms. Milton saw Brad whisper into Cotton’s ear and the answering nod.

“Milton, could we take you up on your offer to stay the night? I don’t think either of us are in a fit state to drive,” Brad said.

“We wouldn’t have offered if it were a problem. The guest room is on the second floor all the way to the end on the right in the turret. If you like peace and quiet, shut all the doors. I’ve laid some spare toiletries and overnight things out on the bed.”

Trent stood as Milton was speaking. “I’ll show them up. I think Mace and I will call it quits for the day.”

Milton watched them head up the stairs. Sheldon in a sleepy voice asked, “Do you think you convinced Brad to spank Cotton?”

“So that’s what you think I was doing?”

“You don’t tell those kind of stories without a reason. When you're just story telling we hear about the herd getting loose on Christmas Eve or your first trip on the New York subway.”

“Don’t give all my secrets away,” Milton said with a low chuckle. “Luke and Mike aren’t fully broken in.” Milton ran his fingers through Mike’s short hair and smiled softly.

Sheldon’s eyes widened as he watched his partner. “You spanked Mike today, didn’t you?”

Even in the dim light, Milton could see Mike blush, and he rubbed the young man’s back. “Sheldon,” Milton said, drawing the syllables out in his partner’s name.

“Where was I when all the fun was going on? I can’t believe I missed it. My partner spanking someone’s ass besides mine.”

In one quick motion, Milton slid off the sofa, grabbed his errant partner, and reseated himself with Sheldon face down over his lap. “I guess I’ve been neglecting my duties.” Milton deftly took down Sheldon’s dress pants and started spanking in the same pattern that he’d used with Mike earlier.

“Shit! That hurts,” Sheldon yelped and reached back with his hands.

“Leave your hands up front, or I’ll take your boxers down and do this right, audience or not,” Milton growled under his breath. Sheldon pulled his hands forward, and Milton finished quickly, pulled up his boy’s pants up, and righted him between his knees. Milton hugged Sheldon hard before lifting his chin and passionately kissing his partner. “Are you still feeling neglected?” 

“No, sir,” Sheldon said, reaching around to rub the sting out.

During the spanking, Mike had curled his long legs into a ball and was now huddled on the far corner of the sofa. Milton reached out and grabbed  Mike’s hand, unwinding the tight knot of arms and limbs. “It’s OK, Mike. For all of Sheldon’s bluster, he’s harmless. I think you guys might even like each other if you gave it half a chance. God help us if you do.” Milton gave an exaggerated eye roll. ”All the tops will be exhausted. I shudder to think of the mischief you two could create.”

“I’m sorry, Mike. I was out of line,” Sheldon said.

“It’s OK. I’m probably too sensitive right now,” Mike said with a faint twist of a smile.

“I know what you mean,” Sheldon said, rubbing his butt.

“It serves you right,” Mike said with a touch of vengeance in his voice.

“It did.” Sheldon laughed. “I know better.”

Mike couldn’t help but smile at Sheldon’s light hearted reply. 

“Mike,” Milton said now that a fragile peace had been negotiated between the two men.

“Yeah.”Mike’s tone was still laced with resentment.

“I thought you were finished snarling at me,” Milton said, letting his hand rest on Mike’s hip. 

“Was that the only time you were spanked?” Mike asked

“No,” Milton said, “but it was the time that meant the most to me, and the only time by my grandfather, even though he did threaten it a few other times.”

“Who else spanked you?”

“I think we need to get your partners trundled off to bed. They look like they're going nowhere fast.”

“Hey, that’s evading the question,” Sheldon said. “You’d never let me get away with that.”

“Who’s the top here?” Milton mock growled and reached out and captured Sheldon, playfully swatting him before tickling him.

“Stop, you ogre,” Sheldon laughed, stepping back and nearly tripping on Tilden.

“I’m awake now,” Tilden murmured, I’ve just got to get these old bones moving. Oh and if you want to know who spanked Milton ask him about his final semester in high school.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Milton groaned. “See if I help you carry Luke to bed.” Despite his words, Milton plucked the sleeping young man off Tilden’s chest, so his friend could stand. Milton swept his hand through Luke’s curls—so innocent, so naive and cursed with that thing who was supposed to be a father. At least he had Tilden and Mike now. Two boys without family sheltered under a man who had family to spare.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**Chapter 3**

 

Sheldon was the first downstairs as usual after Trent and Mace left to open the shop. It wasn’t that Sheldon liked early mornings, but he had to take the train into Boston and be at his desk by nine. He would rather have slept until nine, but Milton had a dim view of tardiness, and Sheldon’s backside usually preferred to avoid the consequences. At least being first, he had the best of what Trent and Mace were offering for breakfast. Today they’d outdone themselves on account of the unexpected guests. Usually as the week wound down, they were serving a continental breakfast, but today there were scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh biscuits. 

Sheldon had just poured himself a glass of juice when he heard hesitant footsteps on the stairs. “Morning, Cotton, did you sleep well?”

“I guess,” Cotton said, not lifting his eyes from the stair treads. 

“Come on. I was just getting myself some breakfast. Do you want some?”

“Just coffee. I don’t eat much breakfast.”

“Does Brad let you get away with that?”

Cotton looked up, startled, his pale blue eyes anxious. “Do they control what you eat?”

“Do you mean the tops?” Sheldon said with a wide smile. “Don’t all tops? Milton’s not too anal about it as long as I make some attempt to eat real food. Living on potato chips and vending machine cheese and crackers gets him hot under the collar. But it’s easy here; Trent and Mace are great cooks, and for a top Trent’s real accommodating of everyone’s tastes. Mace made biscuits this morning. You don’t want to miss them; they’re prize winning.”

Cotton nodded and took a plate, still with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, and put one biscuit and a teaspoon of eggs on it.

“Is that all you’re having?” Sheldon asked.

“It’s too early.”

“Well, hurry up and finish before Milton comes down. That way I can tell him you had biscuits and eggs. He doesn’t need to know it was a micro portion of eggs.”

Cotton didn’t say anything but stared at the table and the hard wooden chairs surrounding it.

“Eat at the counter. It’s the right height for standing. That’s what I do if I’ve had a rough evening. No one will say anything here; it’s pretty normal, especially for me. I’m a trouble magnet.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Cotton asked, still staring at the table with dismay.

“Do I like to get walloped? Sheldon shrugged. “It can have its pleasures, but sometimes it just fucking hurts. Milton’s not as fearsome as he seems at first. He’s a pretty great guy to live with,” Sheldon said with a grin.

“I must be going soft,” Milton said from the doorway, “if you’re describing me as not too fearsome. Trent and Mace cooked for us. That was nice of them. Usually by Thursday we’re on muffins and cereal.” Milton poured himself a cup of coffee and piled a plate high with eggs and bacon. “I think Trent has a secret contract with the local cardiologist.”

“Your cholesterol is always perfect. It was all those eggs and whole milk as a boy,” Sheldon said.

“Cream,” Milton said with a smile. “We had cream on our cereal.” Milton looked over at Cotton’s sparse plate. “Is that all you’re having?”

“I’m not hungry,” Cotton replied, poking at his eggs with his fork.

“Hmm,” Milton said softly, one eyebrow rising into his hair line. “We have cereal and fruit if you prefer?”

Sheldon could see Cotton struggling to reply. He imagined that Cotton was debating trying to hide in the woodwork or answering belligerently. Milton’s words had been spoken gently, but it was clear that not eating wasn’t going to pass muster.

“I’m not hungry,” Cotton repeated. He wasn’t successful in keeping the whine out of his voice.

Sheldon watched, fascinated as Milton calmly rose from the table, walked over to Cotton, and wrapped his arms around the slight frame, tucking Cotton tightly against Milton’s chest. He’d seen Milton adopt this aura of calm several times before, most notably when the neighbor lady’s cat had managed to become entrapped in the dryer vent. Two firemen were looking perplexed, holding massive tin snips while Milton calmly went into the basement and dismantled the dryer vent giving the cat an easy escape route. 

“Do you want me to get Brad?” Milton asked, his voice pitched for quiet conversation in a library.

“No, he hates me now,” Cotton muttered.

Sheldon started to move into the dining room to give Cotton some privacy when Milton shook his head and mouthed, “No, stay,” over Cotton’s head. Sheldon nodded and returned to his eggs.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Milton asked in the same quiet tone.

“No,” Cotton said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I just want to be left alone.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Sheldon has a lot of experience with these type of things. Would you like to talk to him?”

“I’m not nearly as scary as the tops,” Sheldon said with a big grin. “I know all about how you feel. Hell, Milton dusted my fanny last night in front of Mike.” Sheldon shot Milton a murderous look.

“You deserved it, my boy. It sounds like I should’ve done it harder.”

Sheldon listened and watched Milton banter with him, filling in his side of the conversation as needed. He could tell Milton’s attention was focused on Cotton, and the conversation with Sheldon was an attempt to relax the young man. Milton indicated with a nod of his head that Sheldon should bring Milton’s plate over to the counter. Milton scraped part of his eggs, added a slice of bacon, and buttered the biscuit before sliding Cotton’s plate in front of him.

“Eat, boy.” Milton kept one hand firmly around Cotton’s waist while eating his own breakfast with the other hand.

Cotton stared at the plate as if he’d forgotten what to do with the silverware.

Sheldon caught Milton’s eye and smiled as Milton rolled his eyes and grimaced. Sheldon mouthed, “Baby brat.” 

Milton shot his boy a wicked glare, and Sheldon knew he was getting close to stepping over the line. “Sorry,” he muttered under his breath and busied himself with the remains of breakfast. Sheldon was shoveling the last of his eggs in his mouth when Brad came down the stairs. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes and looked rumpled and tired.

“Brad,” Cotton cried and made a beeline for his partner.

Brad instinctively opened his arms and engulfed his partner, his hand stroking Cotton’s back. “Are you giving these gentlemen problems?”

Cotton buried himself deeper in Brad’s arms and said nothing.

Sheldon heard Milton sigh softly. Sheldon could imagine what Milton was thinking, stop babying the boy. He was spanked last night, not killed. Make everything normal, and he’ll adjust. Sheldon had heard that advice doled out to Trent and Tilden many times and lived the results of the same advice. Milton was always practical. Why wasn’t he telling Brad to get on with it? Feed the white-haired munchkin some breakfast and drag him off to work. “Cotton didn’t much care for our breakfast offerings,” Sheldon said aloud.

“He doesn’t much care for breakfast especially when he’s upset,” Brad said, tightening his arms around his boy. 

Sheldon looked at Milton, expecting him to jump in with a comment about starting the day with a healthy breakfast; instead Milton quietly ate his eggs. “This is bullshit!” Sheldon spat. “You’d never let me get away with not eating even if you’d caned me the night before.”

“Corner now,” Milton ordered, already moving toward Sheldon. “And how often do I cane you, boy?” Milton’s voice hit a warning note that sent Sheldon scrambling for the corner, but not fast enough to avoid a swat and Milton’s hot breath on the back of Sheldon’s neck. “Put your hands on your head. I expect better manners from you.”

“You’d be all over me if I didn’t eat breakfast especially if I were someone’s guest.”

“Do you talk in the corner?” Milton’s voice was ominous.

Sheldon swallowed hard and tried to get hold of his temper. “No, sir.” He didn’t want to go to work with red, swollen eyes—especially now with the TV show. Everybody at the office would  know; he’d never be able to hide behind the excuse of allergies again.

Sheldon heard Milton move back to the table and the sound of drawers being opened and plates being moved. Sheldon tried to peer around his shoulder to see the clock; he needed to leave for work in five to ten minutes. 

“Turn back around,” Milton barked.

Sheldon turned back and stared at the wall. He was the one in trouble, and it was Cotton who should be in trouble. That kid had moped around all morning like his world had fallen in, and everybody had let him. What happened to the cheerful obedience that Milton insisted on?

Sheldon was still stewing over Cotton when Milton tapped Sheldon on the shoulder. “Turn around. You need to get to work.” Milton grasped Sheldon’s shoulders and gave him a light kiss on the lips. “I love you, boy. Behave. Now run, or you’ll miss the train. Your raincoat and umbrella are in the laundry room; get them before you go.”

Sheldon grabbed his suit coat from the back of the chair and took off, glad that Milton hadn’t insisted on talking about his outburst. Sheldon didn’t want to be late or worse, kept home from work, and secondly he was still angry at his partner’s sudden obtuseness. Milton had to see that Cotton needed a firm hand; Milton was an experienced top, after all.

Sheldon’s coat and umbrella were hanging neatly in the laundry room, not the wet mess he’d tossed down on a kitchen chair last night. The tool box was sitting on top of the dryer. That must have been Mace; he’d said something last night about a drippy faucet. Sheldon reached to put the tools away, slipping the wire cutters in his pocket. Mace had probably hung up his jacket and umbrella last night, keeping Sheldon out of trouble with Milton. Putting the tools up would return the favor. 

The sky was gunmetal gray, and Sheldon could almost see the dampness in the air, another beautiful Massachusetts late fall days. Brad’s car was parked on the far side of the garage. Sheldon glanced back over his shoulder; it wouldn’t be visible from the kitchen windows. Brad had left in unlocked. It took Sheldon a split second to pop the hood and snip a few wires. Even if Milton was listening for him to drive out, a delay wouldn’t be noticeable.

 

****

 

Tilden still had a damp towel around his neck. He entered the kitchen just in time to hear the outer door bang shut. “Isn’t Sheldon cutting it close?”

Milton glanced at his watch. “He’ll make it as long as he doesn’t stop for more coffee. We were having a small discussion this morning.”

Tilden nodded and raised an eyebrow, knowing full well what Milton meant.

“I think we need to be on our way,” Brad said, getting up and moving his dishes to the sink as he snagged his partner and headed for the door.

“Why don’t you take some biscuits for the drive? Cotton might be hungry later, and Mace made enough for half the town.”

Tilden looked over at the young man leaning against Brad as they left the kitchen. Both Cotton and Brad looked uncomfortable this morning as if they felt overwhelmed in the presence of two tops. Cotton was always pale, and perhaps Brad’s mind was already on morning surgeries or the birds he’d left at home. Tilden put their guests out of his mind as Luke and Mike came stomping into the kitchen. After yesterday, they were both still out of sorts. Luke was on the edge of tears at the slightest hint of criticism, and Mike was banging and crashing like a rampaging bull.

“Good morning, boys. Don’t I get a hello?” Milton said when Mike slapped a plate down on the table.

“Morning,” Mike grunted.

Luke said nothing and went to stand by Tilden, who wrapped an arm around his  partner’s shoulders.

“ _Dobroe utro, Luka._ Tell Milton hello,” Tilden continued in Russian.

_“Dobroe utro,”_ Luke mumbled.

Milton nodded and smiled.

_Ti khochesh’ zavtrakat’?”_ Tilden continued.

Luke responded to the simple familiarity of the Russian sentences and started a short conversation with Tilden about breakfast foods. Tilden spooned some eggs onto two plates and pulled Luke down on his lap with the food within easy reach. Mike sat at the opposite end of the table, sloshing his coffee out of his mug and scattering eggs around the plate. 

Milton ran a hand down Mike’s back. “Is there something you want to talk about before you get yourself in trouble?”

“No, can’t I be in a bad mood in peace?” Mike grumped.

“Yes, but do it a little quieter. You’re disturbing my good mood.”

Milton would have continued, but he was interrupted by Brad returning, dragging Cotton behind him. “I’m sorry to bother you, but my car won’t start, and I’m mechanically inept. I’m fine with pinning a tibia, but don’t ask me to tell a spark plug from a carburetor.”

“None of us is a car expert either. Let me get you the number for the garage,” Milton said, rising and heading towards the drawer where they kept the phonebooks. 

“Did he leave the lights on?” Mike snarled at Cotton.

“No, we checked. And what’s with you this morning? I’m sorry for standing in your precious kitchen,” Cotton snapped back at Mike.

“Enough,” Milton said with sufficient force to instantly silence the snarling men. Mike became fascinated by his eggs, and Cotton dove behind Brad.

“I’m sorry,” Brad apologized again. “We’ll be out of your hair as soon as we can.”

“Don’t worry,” Tilden said with a reassuring smile. “In this household we hardly notice an extra couple.” Mike made some sort of noise between a groan and a spluttered curse. “Would you like to finish your breakfast in the study?”

“No, sir,” Mike said, making an effort to sound contrite.

“Cotton, are you in college?” Milton asked in the conversational lull.

Cotton stared at his scuffed running shoes before he shook his head. “He’s working on his G.E.D.,” Brad answered for him.

“I have a plan,” Milton said, straddling a chair. “I’ll take Cotton, Luke, and Mike with me this morning. It might inspire Cotton to be more interested in academics. Tilden can stay here and help get your car taken care of. He doesn’t have a class till eleven.”

“Do you have everyone’s schedule memorized?” Tilden joked.

“Yes, you know me.”

Cotton looked anxious at the idea of being sent off alone with Milton and two near strangers, but Luke seemed thrilled with the idea, and Milton hustled and cajoled Cotton out the door ten minutes later without much effort.

Brad sank down on the kitchen chair and slumped over the table. “God, he does that easily. I feel like a total fraud.”

“It can’t be that bad; Cotton seems very attached to you,” Tilden said, sipping his tea. 

“I’m good at faking it. You get lots of practice as a vet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, half the time I don’t have a clue what’s wrong with people’s pets, but they don’t want to be told the diagnosis is open. Instead I take a guess, and most dogs and cats get better, sometimes in spite of me. My first year out of school I felt like a complete fraud. In school you see all the crazy stuff--a head tilt means a brain tumor, not an ear infection. You pretend to know routine medicine and hope nobody catches on that you keep running to the back to read the textbook. Unfortunately I don’t have a textbook for this whole charade.”

“Do you think you’re a failure at this, at being a top?” Tilden stood up, went to the samovar, and poured Brad a mug of tea.

Brad wrapped his hands around the mug as if drawing warmth from it, even though the kitchen wasn’t cold. He took a couple sips. “I’m not an overwhelming success at this. I have to chase my brat all over the east coast.”

“Lost brats are par for the course. I lost Mike and found him passed out from drink unconscious on the floor of a deserted home. And I have two other tops to watch my back.”

“Thanks for trying to cheer me up. But are you always this prying?”

Tilden could feel his cheeks color a light pink, and he gave Brad a twisted smile. “It comes from living with Milton. He’s about as subtle as a brick.”

Brad laughed and for a moment Tilden could see that Brad could probably be fun when he wasn’t worrying. “You can tell him that I did spank Cotton, even though I feel like shit about it today.”

“I thought you had. Cotton didn’t look like he much wanted to sit.”

“Milton and Sheldon knew instantly. Somehow it caused the two of them to get in a fight this morning.”

“Really,” Tilden said with surprise. “Sheldon’s an experienced—” Tilden hunted for the word. Milton used submissive or boy more than brat, but television show used the more comfortable brat. Somehow Tilden couldn’t think of submissive without conjuring up images that involved whips, chains, and ball gags. “Sheldon’s an experienced brat.” That was the safe choice of words; it mirrored the style of the television show. “He’s been spanked a lot and seen plenty of others spanked. What was bothering him?”

“He was fussing at Milton about my partner not eating. I think he wanted Milton to intervene.”

“Sheldon’s the only person that can make Milton look subtle. His advice is good, but his presentation is tactless.”

“He seems like a maniac. Sorry,” Brad quickly back pedaled. “I assume he’s your friend.”

“He is my friend, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a maniac.” Tilden smiled. “The dynamics of this household are complicated. Don’t expect to learn them in twenty-four hours. I still don’t have a handle on it.”

“The ethnologists would love to get their hands on you guys. You’d probably destroy half their theories on human behavior.” 

“We’re not simple. No pack with a single clear alpha.”

“The pack behavior theory is hocus-pocus, based on junk science. Dog social groups are fluid and not based on strict family groups. All that alpha garbage just leads to abuse. When dogs misbehave it’s not because they’re challenging for control, it’s usually because they haven’t been temperament trained and are frightened. Physical force will escalate the problem. It’s easy to suppress certain behaviors with violence, but the problem will reappear with greater vengeance redirected at something else. People jerk the living daylights out of their dogs with pinch collars or worse zap them with electricity and wonder why they bite the child who puts his arms around their neck. What do they expect?” Brad ran his fingers through his hair. “Sorry, the pack theory stuff really gets my dander up.”

Tilden nodded. “Don’t be sorry. I think it’s fascinating. If I ever get a dog, I’ll call you for training tips. You’re feeling guilty about spanking Cotton.”

Brad blinked and buried himself in his tea.

“I’m taking lessons in subtlety from Milton and Sheldon. One thing you learn as a top is to listen around the conversation. Most brats won’t come out and tell you what’s wrong, but they’ll drop plenty of hints. You’re doing the same thing, aren’t you?”

Brad gave Tilden a rueful smile. “I feel totally outclassed here.”

“Don’t. I’ve lived in this environment for years. Milton’s not shy about keeping my head on straight.”

“He wanted you to talk to me this morning.”

“Yes, that’s why he took my partners and Cotton with him. I suspect he’s hoping Luke and Mike will talk to Cotton. I don’t know if they’ll get the hint or not. They’re still recovering from yesterday.”

“You look a little worse for the wear yourself.”

“Pretty, isn’t it? Hurts a bit too,” Tilden said, touching his face gingerly.

The doorbell rang, interrupting their conversation. 

“It must be the people from the garage,” Brad said, getting up.

“Don’t look so relieved. I don’t have to teach until eleven. There’s plenty of time to finish this conversation.”

“Your poor partners,” Brad groaned.

After Tilden drank a second cup of tea and Brad hadn’t returned, he pulled on a heavy sweater and went out on the drive. Maggie, the local mechanic, was bent over the engine making tsking noises.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Tilden said.

“It’s not. I need to replace a bunch of wires. They’ve been cut. You’re not fighting with your neighbors or anything, are you?”

“No, Maggie, we’re as peaceful as always.”

“Yeah, I’ll believe that,” she said, straightening up and wiping her hands on her coveralls. “I’ve met the other side of your family.”

Maggie’s family had owned the local garage for as long as Tilden had lived in West Banner. It had started out as her father’s business, but when he’d been disabled with worsening diabetes, she’d taken over. At first, there had been whispers among the more old-fashioned types questioning why her brothers weren’t operating the business, but these soon quieted when the cars were fixed on time and at a good price.

“I’ll have to tow it to the shop. I should have it back by closing.”

“Thanks, we appreciate it, and don’t worry about nefarious strangers cutting car wires. I think it was a joke that went too far.”

“Good, I’d hate to think we had some misplaced militia from Texas hiding out in our woods,” Maggie said with a wide smile.

Brad signed some paperwork, and Maggie loaded the car onto the flatbed truck. She gave them both a cheerful wave as she pulled out of the drive.

“What was he thinking?” Tilden muttered to himself as he returned to the house.

“Who thinking?” Brad said from one step behind Tilden.

“Do you have bionic ears? Another sign you’re cut out to be a top. Hearing what your partner thinks he kept under his breath. Sheldon, of course.”

“Sheldon?”

“Yes, the infamous Sheldon. I told you he wasn’t subtle. Milton’s not going to be happy.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Yes.” Tilden sighed. “If I don’t it will be far worse. Sheldon will crash around, causing more problems until Milton pries it out of him and be in more hot water.”

“Oh,” Brad said softly. “Poor Sheldon.”

Tilden snorted. “Poor Milton, more likely. Even for him, the big things are hard.”

“It’s not the end of the world.” Brad shrugged. “The office will cope.”

“It’ll be a big deal to Milton and also to Sheldon once he stops to think about it. It should be educational for you. You’ll get an up close and personal look on how an experienced top copes with a disaster.”

Tilden had poured more tea as they were talking and set the plate of biscuits on the table with strawberry jam and locally grown honey.

“Is food and tea your solution to everything?” Brad said, helping himself to another biscuit.

“Tea’s my thing. Trent does the food.”

“Chewing does alter stress and adrenaline levels. Changes the brain chemistry to a more relaxed state.”

“Good,” Tilden said with excessive cheer. “Maybe now you’ll tell me what went on when you spanked Cotton.”

“I thought you were the kinder, gentler model—not the whack them with a shovel until they tell all.”

Tilden laughed. “If Sheldon thought it was important enough to wreck your car, there’s no use being subtle.”

“I guess it went OK. He went over my knee easy enough—didn’t fight me—acted like he wanted it. But I feel terrible about it. I physically struck my lover.” Brad shuddered and took another sip of tea.

“Why did you audition for that crazy TV program if the idea bothered you?”

“I knew I was different,” Brad said softly. “My boyfriends accused me of being controlling, hurled insults about me being a top. I did it on a lark. I’d sworn off boyfriends for a year after my last disaster. I signed up thinking I’d never get picked, and I might learn more about this top/brat thing.”

“Sounds like my story,” Tilden said with a chuckle. “Sheldon and Mace signed me up, and I went along, thinking it would end before it even started. And look at me, I have two partners whom I adore. I could do without their parents.” Tilden fingered the bruise around his eye.

“I know how you feel. Cotton’s parents called me a bastard and hung up on me.”

“What about yours?”

“They pretend it’s not happening. They’re good at ignoring the obvious.”

“You know we’re here if you need us.” Tilden reached across the table and laid his hand over Brad’s wrist.

Brad flinched and jerked back.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking a little comfort,” Tilden said with a hint of censure.

“I’m not a touchy-feely guy. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, but don’t be afraid of what you want. Cotton certainly wants you to touch him. I saw him last night.”

“I know,” Brad said sadly. “I think I’m failing him.”

“You’re not unless you permit yourself to give up when it scares you,” Tilden said with a sharpness he usually reserved for Sheldon on the rampage.

“I thought Milton was the only scary one here.”

“No,” Tilden said with a grin. “He taught me well.”

“I shouldn’t have done this.”

“You love Cotton, don’t you? You certainly showed up quick once Mace called you, and you looked genuinely distressed. You’re not a professional actor playing this role for the TV execs?”

“No, I am what I am, a vet who’s way over my head. It’s not like a case that’s not going right. I can’t just call the specialist.”

“You can call us.” Tilden took another sip of tea. “I know, I know, it’s awfully personal. With the arrangement we have here, we’re not shy.”

“I can tell,” Brad said with a self-effacing laugh.

“What exactly did Cotton do yesterday that led him to ending up at The Olde Curiosity Shop with no money?”

“So you know about him trying to steal lunch?”

“Yes, that kind of story moves quickly in this house.”

“He let two of my birds out in the aviary and panicked. He’s not supposed to handle the larger cockatoos because they can be dangerous. I gave him a goffin that we keep in the house, but he has a fascination with the palms. I don’t know why he ran up here, but Mace snagged him and called me. I think Mace picked up right away that he was a runaway brat.

“Cotton’s an obvious brat. Anyone familiar with the lifestyle can tell immediately.”

“Is Mace a brat?” Brad hesitated over the word.

“He doesn’t wear it on his sleeve like the rest of the submissive side of the household, but he can brat, not in the noisy, campy way of Sheldon, or at least not usually. Trent and Mace have a very quiet relationship, but Trent doesn’t mess around.”

“So—you’re not all like Milton.”

“No. _Slava Bogu_. You can be a strong top and blend into the crowd or a consummate brat for that matter. However, I don’t think Cotton’s the blending type.”

“Yeah, I know.” Brad laughed. “Seriously,” he said, fingering the rim of the mug. “How do you know when it’s the right thing to spank, that it’s not abusive or making it worse?”

“Experience. It’s sounds like Cotton did just about everything but throw himself over your knee. Listen to your partner. I assume when you train dogs you watch their response and body language. Cotton can talk, so it should be easier.”

“I’d never hit a dog.”

“You didn’t hit Cotton in anger. You spanked him. He went willingly over your knee, and he asked for this type of relationship in the first place. Don’t ever forget that. He can withdraw consent at any time and then it would be abuse.” Tilden stared hard at Brad and leaned across the table. “You have a great deal of power in this type of relationship, but it’s Cotton who ultimately decides.”

“I see,” Brad said, swallowing hard and backing away from Tilden.

“I don’t think you’ll abuse it. I think you’re more likely to not use it enough.”

“How do you know when it’s enough?”

“Listen to your partner. He’ll tell you.”

“But what am I listening for?”

“The sounds of trust.”

“Well, that’s great,” Brad said sarcastically. “That’s like a surgeon saying you’ll just know when your knots are right. I’d like a more precise checklist.”

“You should talk to Milton. He’s good at putting these things into words and understands the dynamics of these relationships as well as anyone I’ve ever met. He’s written scads of articles on their history and evolution into modern times.”

“Having a granddad who was a top, I’m sure helped.”

“Yes, but Milton subbed also.”

“Milton as a sub,” Brad said incredulously. “Who topped him?”

“I met his dom once. Two hundred years ago he would’ve been either a prince or a revolutionary. He leaked charisma standing in the corner. The word _groznii_ truly described him. It’s usually translated as the terrible, but it really means the awesome, as in Ivan the Awesome.”

“I’m glad he doesn’t live here,” Brad said with a shaky laugh. “I find Milton _groznii_ enough.”

“Don’t tell him that.” Tilden laughed. “He already has a big enough ego. He’s the one to ask if you want to know the mechanics of how hard, how long, and what implement. He also understands the aftercare. He’s been on the other side and it shows. You’ll get a first hand demonstration tonight. Sheldon’s in major trouble.”

“I’m glad I’m not Sheldon.”

Tilden glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Come on. You can walk up to campus with me. Talk to Milton and talk to Luke and Mike. I’m not sure how much they’ll tell you, but if they’ll talk they can give you valuable insight into what it feels to be on their side of the equation. Sheldon will definitely talk. He’s not shy.”

“I think I’m getting that picture. Thanks for taking the time.”

“It’s nothing. As Milton always says, part of a responsibility of a top is to educate. Maybe that’s why we both teach.”

 

****

 

The six o’clock commuter train rumbled back into the West Banner Station. Cutting the wires had seemed like a brilliant idea this morning. Keep Brad and Cotton stranded so Milton would talk to them, straighten them out. Sheldon had started to feel guilty early in the afternoon. He’d actually twice started to call Milton before setting the phone back in the cradle. Why put the noose around his own neck? Jim, his secretary, had noticed that Sheldon appeared distracted; Jim had asked Sheldon if he felt ill. Sheldon had made a feeble excuse of coming down with a cold.

Sheldon exited the commuter train to see Milton leaning against a lamppost, his arms folded and his expression grim. Milton strode towards Sheldon and snapped his fingers. “Your keys.”

“I’m capable of driving home.”

“I’m sure you are, but you’re not going to. You’re capable of many things; some I’m sure you don’t want to discuss on a public train platform. Your keys. I won’t ask again.”

Sheldon swallowed hard and reached into his pocket for his keys. Milton was mad, truly mad. When Milton spoke in those clipped tones with an overlay of sarcasm, Sheldon’s world got ugly fast. “What did I do?” Sheldon asked, trying for a wide-eyed look of innocence.

“Not here. Not now. We’ll talk at home.”

Sheldon trailed after Milton to the parking lot. What else was there to do? 

“Get in. Put your seat belt on,” Milton ordered, opening the passenger side door. Milton said nothing on the short drive home. After parking the car in the drive, Milton walked back to the passenger side where Sheldon sat frozen. “Up. Inside.”

Sheldon didn’t have time to comply before Milton reached in and tugged him out of the vehicle. Milton kept his hand on Sheldon’s back as he guided his partner into the laundry room.

“Leave your shoes, coat, and umbrella here,” Milton barked. “Where are the wire cutters?”

“In the toolkit.”

“Show me.”

Sheldon moved to where they kept the toolkit; his feet felt like lead. Of course they weren’t in the toolkit; they were in his briefcase.

“Put the tools on the counter. Tell me what each tool is.”

“Hammer,” Sheldon started, his voice faltering. “Wrench, vice grips, screw driver—they’re in my briefcase,” Sheldon choked, not trying to stop the tears that were running down his cheeks.

“Go upstairs and wait for me.” Milton’s voice was ice personified.

Sheldon didn’t look back but fled the laundry room into the kitchen and up the stairs. His brain only faintly registered that everyone seemed to be gathered in the kitchen. He thought Tilden might have touched Sheldon’s shoulder in sympathy as he darted through the kitchen and up the stairs.

 

****

 

Milton shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly he released the breath. He opened Sheldon’s briefcase; tucked in the top pocket along with a cellphone were the wire cutters. Milton ran his large hand over the handles as he tucked them back in the toolkit and stowed it in the cupboard. Sheldon could be audacious at times, but even for him disabling a guest’s car was outrageous. Milton headed through the kitchen toward their rooms.

Tilden’s hand closed around Milton’s wrist as Milton crossed the kitchen floor. “Are you OK?”

“No,” Milton snapped before he forced himself with a conscious effort to relax his shoulders and neck. “Sorry, it’s not your fault. I just don’t understand what got into that boy. It’s not like we’re new at this. He had to know he’d be in a world of trouble for this little stunt.”

“I don’t think he thought that far ahead,” Tilden said, rubbing his friend’s shoulders. “I think he was worried about Cotton, and that was all the further he thought. You know Sheldon has a big heart.”

“A big heart, but sometimes... Sabotaging a car.” Milton shook his head.

“You’ve always said that no matter what Mike or Luke do that Sheldon will always have done something more insane or audacious. He’s just proving you right.”

Milton gave Tilden a twisted smile. “You know I’m not going to kill him.”

“I know, but I think you’re considering using your belt, and I think it’s too much. Sheldon wasn’t trying to be malicious. He was trying to help—-misguided, poorly planned, but not outright ugly.”

“I needed a vacation day anyway,” Brad said from the far corner of the table.

“I’m sorry about my partner causing you to miss work and leaving you stranded here another day.”

“No harm done. Today was very educational. The best continuing education I’ve ever had. Now I just need a textbook _Supportive Topping for Dummies.”_ Brad ran his fingers through Cotton’s pale hair and kissed his partner’s forehead. “You should run weekend training camps. We’d certainly sign up. You could probably make a good living at it.”

“That sounds frightening,” Milton said with a genuine smile. “Couples counseling along with courses in creative auto disassembling, dressing inappropriately for the weather, and unique temper tantrums. Thanks guys. I really won’t kill my little devil.” Milton kissed Tilden on the cheek and climbed the stairs to their room.

Sheldon had changed into pajamas and was curled up in the armchair, looking smaller and younger than he really was. He looked up, his face streaked with tears. “Are you going to use your belt?”

Milton walked over to the worn armchair and wrapped his arms around his partner. “No, Tilden talked me out of it.”

“Bless him,” Sheldon said with a trace of his usual humor.

Milton pulled his partner out of the chair, sat down, and pulled Sheldon back onto his lap. “Does the belt frighten you that badly?”

“I know you won’t harm me, but ...” Sheldon burrowed into Milton’s chest.

“I used it when I caught you drinking and driving. You were very frightened then, weren’t you? You thought I might throw you out.” Milton kissed the side of Sheldon’s face and let his chin rest on Sheldon’s red hair. Milton continued when Sheldon didn’t say anything. “I love you, my boy, and don’t you forget it. No matter what you do, I will love you. You could break my heart by loving someone else or intentionally hurting me, but I will love you always.”

“I’d never do that,” Sheldon whispered.

“I know,” Milton said, kissing Sheldon again. 

“You were mad at me at the station,” Sheldon said in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry, and I’m sorry I lied to you about the wire cutters.”

“Yes, I was, but we’ll work it out. And yes, I did talk to Cotton and Brad today and so did Tilden. You could’ve just asked us, you didn’t need to come up with a crazy scheme involving vandalizing cars. Why didn’t you tell me you thought I needed to talk to them?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just you were being so obtuse this morning. You usually aren’t shy about telling people what you think, and you were tiptoeing around them this morning.”

“Sheldon, my boy, they barely know me. Ordering Brad to tighten up on his partner hardly seemed like appropriate breakfast conversation. I thought Tilden could handle that conversation with more tact than I could.”

“Did he?”

“He started it and then dragged me in as the more experienced top for my opinions.”

“Are they better now?”

“Yes, I think they’ll figure it out, but it’s not going to be a straight line. But it’s us we need to talk about, not them.”

“You already know what happened,” Sheldon said into Milton’s shirt. “Can we just get on with it?”

“Tell me what you were thinking.”

“God! Haven’t we already hashed it out enough? It was stupid. I should have talked with you.”

“Sheldon,” Milton said in a warning tone. “Do you need to stand in the corner?”

Sheldon grabbed hold of Milton’s shirt. “Don’t put me in the corner. Please.”

“Then talk to me. We’ve been together a long time, and this is not your usual schtick. What bothered you so much this morning? Are all these inexperienced boys getting on your nerves?”

“It just seems so hard for them.”

“I know.” Milton kissed the side of Sheldon’s neck, biting lightly.

“Mike and Luke go from one disaster to the next.”

“And I’m pretty distracted by them, aren’t I?”

“No, this wasn’t about me needing more attention,” Sheldon said hotly. “You’re good about making time for me. Tilden even finds time for me, and he looks like he’s run ragged. I shouldn’t have played with him the day Luke cheated. He didn’t need the distraction.”

“Sheldon, honey.” Milton tightened his arms around his partner. “Tilden knew you were playing with the door slamming and stomping, and he enjoyed it. He was very appreciative of your help with Luke that day.”

“He thought I helped?” Sheldon asked, not masking the longing in his voice.

“Yes, he made a special effort to tell me, and I should have told you. I’ve been distracted. You should talk with Brad. An experienced boy can teach a top things that no top could ever tell him. I think Cotton will probably see you as an older generation and therefore scary, but he did talk to Luke.”

“Luke’s sweet—clueless but sweet.”

“Behave.” Milton let a teasing tone creep into his voice.  “What were you thinking this morning when you cut the car’s wires?” Milton asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“I don’t know. They just seemed so lost and alone. I wanted them to stay.”

“That was a nice thought, but poor execution.” Milton ruffled Sheldon’s hair. “What am I going to do with you? Sabotaging someone’s car because you think they’re lonely. That’s a new one.” Milton hugged his partner and kissed Sheldon’s forehead before putting him on his feet between Milton’s knees. Milton put his hand under Sheldon’s chin and lifted it so their eyes met. “If you ever intentionally damaged someone else’s property again, no matter what the cause, I will use my belt. I’m going to paddle you today for it. And we still need to talk about the lie about the wire cutters.”

Milton saw Sheldon choke back a sob as his cheeks flamed a bright red. “I’m sorry.”

“I thought we’d worked out that problem. I guess you need a stronger reminder. I’m keeping you close until I think I can trust you again, and I will keep your keys until that time. Now go get the paddle and meet me in the sitting room.” 

Milton watched Sheldon’s eyes widen at the demand to get the paddle. Milton usually took the paddle into the sitting room and drew Sheldon over his knees, letting Sheldon play a more passive role. But today Milton was going to paddle Sheldon harder than usual, and he wanted to fully remind Sheldon of his role in the relationship and that his boy freely and willing consented to that role.

Milton waited until Sheldon had taken the paddle out from under the socks and handkerchiefs and followed him into the sitting room, shutting the door and turning on the television and the vacuum cleaner. Hopefully the combined noise would muffle the sound for everyone downstairs. If Milton knew Trent, Mace, and Tilden as well as he thought he did, they were making as much noise as possible. Tilden probably started the wash, and Mace probably found a recipe that required the use of the mixer, blender, and Cuisinart simultaneously.

Milton signaled for Sheldon to drop his pajama bottoms and lie over his knees. Sheldon slowly stepped out of them and folded them over the arm of the sofa. He handed Milton the paddle with a pleading expression. Milton patted his thighs and waited. Sheldon dropped across his top’s thighs and grabbed Milton’s leg in a bruising grip. Milton traced his fingers lightly down Sheldon’s back, waiting for the worst of the tension to subside. He could tell by the shake of Sheldon’s shoulders that his boy was already crying hard. Milton continued to lightly stoke Sheldon’s back, letting his partner know by his touch that he was loved and treasured. When Sheldon had calmed, Milton shifted and brought the paddle down hard on his lover’s exposed backside. He paddled quickly, covering his partner’s butt with four complete circuits and not stopping until Sheldon’s skin was a deep red. Sheldon wailed at each swat and now hung over Milton’s knees limp and sobbing. Milton rubbed his lover’s shoulders, calming and soothing his boy. He slid Sheldon to his knees and cradled his partner’s head in his lap.

Milton let Sheldon cry, stroking his hair gently. “I’ve got you. Everything’s OK,” Milton murmured reassuringly.

After a few minutes, Sheldon looked up, his eyes still wet with tears. “Are we good now? That hurt.”

“It was supposed to,” Milton said and kissed Sheldon’s wet cheek, “and yes, we’re good.  Let’s get your face washed, so you can apologize to Brad and Cotton without frightening them.”

Sheldon gave Milton a pleading look.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go with you.” Milton pulled Sheldon to his feet and shepherded him into the bathroom where Milton wiped his partner’s face with a cold damp cloth. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Milton grasped Sheldon’s hand and led him downstairs into the living room where Tilden must have herded everyone to try to block out the noise. The TV was blaring with an American program for a change, and in the distance Milton could hear both the washer and dryer running. The rich smells emanating from the kitchen suggested either Mace or Trent had been baking. Brad and Cotton were curled around each other as close to the the T.V. as possible. 

Milton turned the TV off and pushed Sheldon in front of him, keeping his hands on his partner’s shoulders. “I think you have something to say.”

“I’m sorry about your car, and I’ll pay for the repairs,” Sheldon said, keeping his eyes firmly affixed to the floor.

“There was no real harm done, and I enjoyed the vacation day,” Brad said. “And the rumor is that Mace made his famous chocolate cake. I’d drive halfway down the east coast for good chocolate cake.”

“Thank you,” Sheldon said softly.

Cotton secure in Brad’s lap looked at Sheldon and Milton with wonder, and Milton suspected some degree of fear, at least toward him. “Are you OK?” Cotton stammered.

“Sore as hell, but everything’s good. He’s not as scary as he seems,” Sheldon said, flicking his eyes back toward Milton and giving Cotton a wry grin. “He does pack a mean paddle, though.”

Milton pulled Sheldon into a hug. “Let’s go make a sandwich, and then we can go upstairs and have a lie down. I’m sure Mace will bring us a piece of cake.”

As Milton and Sheldon walked back toward the kitchen, Brad stood and put Cotton on his feet. Brad shook Milton’s and Sheldon’s hands. “I know it wasn’t the most orthodox way to offer help, but I do appreciate it,” Brad said to Sheldon with a genuine smile.

“Thanks, you know you guys can call us. Between the two of us, we have years of experience, and I’m a hellion. If I haven’t tried it, it probably can’t be done,” Sheldon said with a glimpse of his usual grin. 

“Come on, brat,” Milton growled, tousling Sheldon’s hair.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Luke leaned back against the headrest and shut his eyes. They were on their way to pick up Tilden’s parents at the airport. He would gladly have stayed home, but Tilden insisted he come. The choice had been come or come after he was spanked. 

“ _Druzhok,_ you can’t hide the whole time my parents are here. You might as well get it over with,” Tilden had said, but Luke hadn’t believed his partner then, and he didn’t believe him now. After the experience with his dad, he didn’t want to meet any parents; he didn’t care how many people assured him that Tilden’s parents were dear and sweet. Luke curled farther into the seat and leaned against the car door.

“They’re old,” Mike whispered. “They can’t possibly run fast enough to cause us any problems. We’ll just handle them like I did my occasional visits from my grandparents—look cute and let them pat you on the head, and they’ll fade back into the woodwork.”

“What are you two whispering about back there?” Tilden asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Mike said.

Tilden looked at his two young partners in the rearview mirror but didn’t say anything else.

 

 

The airport was crowded with people hauling rolling suitcases and clutching screaming children. Even though it was still more than a week before Thanksgiving, airport workers were putting the final touches on a giant Christmas tree and stringing holiday lights around the windows. Luke followed Tilden’s wild weaving down two sets of escalators and through a crowded corridor to baggage claim. Mike seemed familiar with the airport as he quickly found the baggage carousel for the incoming flight from Detroit.

The three of them stood in an out of the way corner watching the crowd of travelers rush through the doors from the secure part of the concourse. A fresh surge of people poured in as several planes landed at the same time, including Tilden’s parents’ flight from Detroit. Luke scanned the crowd, wondering if he would be able identify them. Would they look like Tilden? He watched an elderly couple, the man in a suit with a bow tie and the woman in a sweater decorated with hens. They looked like the right type to sire Tilden, but a woman from the opposite end of the concourse ran and jumped in their arms. 

A tall man, his hair thinning and graying at the temples, angled through the crowd toward Tilden and his partners. He was pulling two rollerboards and had a satchel slung over his shoulder.

Tilden started moving toward the man, towing Luke and Mike behind him. “Dad, where’s Mom?”

“The bathroom. These must be your two partners. They’re young.”

Luke could feel his neck reddening. With strangers, he was acutely conscious of the age difference between Tilden and him. 

“Dad,” Tilden said with a slight snort, “Everyone under sixty looks young to you and Mom now. I want you to meet Luke and Mike.”

Mr. Blake dropped the handles of the suitcase and tangled himself in the shoulder strap of his satchel as he reached forward to shake Luke’s and Mike’s hands. Tilden seemed used to his dad because he grabbed the handles of both suitcases before they had a chance to roll over and swept the coat off his dad’s shoulders before it landed on the floor.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Luke said.

“What a polite boy,” Mr. Blake said to Tilden.

“Arthur, try not to embarrass the poor boy.” A woman in a khaki skirt and sensible shoes nodded at Luke. She smiled at Luke and Mike; her eyes were the same vivid blue violet as Tilden’s. She embraced Tilden, turned, and pulled Luke and Mike into a hug. “I’m so glad to meet you. Tilden has told me so much about you, and boys please call us Arthur and Dorothy or Mom and Dad.”

“Dad, do you have any checked bags?” Tilden asked.

“No.”

Tilden grabbed the two rollerboards and made a move to relieve his father of the satchel over his shoulder. 

“I’ve got it, Tilden; I’m not infirm.”

“No, I just have many memories of running through airports looking for left bags and missing coats.”

“That’s why I’ve got Dorothy here, Son. She won’t let me forget anything.”

Dorothy gave her husband a tolerant smile. “I don’t know about that. I think I sometimes need a leash for you.”

“Come on, Dad. We’re in the upper parking deck. I don’t want to lose you,” Tilden said with a teasing smile.

They slogged up the elevators and out to the orange level parking deck. Arthur climbed into the front seat with Tilden while everyone else piled into the back. Luke leaned against the door, watching the cars roll by as Mike and Dorothy made small talk about school. From the fragments of conversation, Luke guessed that Dorothy taught in high school.

“Luka, you’re quiet. Is everything OK?” Tilden asked, watching Luke in the rear view mirror. 

“Yeah, I’m just tired.”

“Maybe you need to go to bed earlier tonight.”

God, Tilden was already sending him to bed at ten. What now? An eight thirty bedtime? Luke wasn’t good with small talk with strangers. Mike had mastered the art of talking nonstop without ever saying anything, probably a result of being dropped from house to house as his parents traipsed around the world. Luke envied the ease with which Mike talked about his art history class and his project on the Impressionists. 

Dorothy must have noticed Luke’s silence because she turned toward him and asked about his classes. “Luke, are you taking the same classes as your friend Mike?”

“I’m in history and Russian with him. I also take an English literature course.”

“You were in history,” Mike said, elbowing Luke in the ribs.

“Shut up,” Luke hissed, pushing Mike back.

 It was at that instant that Tilden glanced back, giving both young men a sharp look. “Guys, what’s going on back there?”

“Nothing,” Luke and Mike both said together.

Tilden didn’t say anymore, but Luke could see the flash of warning in his expression. “Now you’ve got us both in trouble,” Mike whispered. “It’s not like it’s a secret that you flunked history.”

“Shut up,” Luke said loud enough that everyone in the car clearly heard it. “It’s not like you’re a perfect angel.” Luke gave Mike a hard shove.

“Stop it.” Tilden’s voice cracked from the front seat like a rifle shot. Luke could feel the car slowing down, and heard the thud of the turn signal. “Dad, do you mind riding in back with Mom? It seems my partners are restless today.” 

“No, not a problem.”

Tilden pulled to the side of the road and put on his hazard lights. Luke scrunched down in his collar; he didn’t think his face could get any redder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as Tilden pulled him toward the front seat.

Tilden hooked an arm around Luke’s neck and gently kissed the top of his head. “I know, Luka. We’ll discuss it at home, and I know Mike’s not blameless.”

Luke curled up in the front and tried to hide the blush on his cheeks. Why did he always find himself in this situation? If Tilden spanked him, he would cry, and he didn’t want Tilden’s parents to hear or know. Luke glanced back at Mike who was having an animated conversation with Arthur about languages in India.

Tilden tapped Luke’s knee. “Keep your eyes up here,” he whispered. “Mike will keep them entertained, and he’s in as much trouble as you are.”

Luke was quiet until they reached the house. He answered the few questions directed at him in monosyllables and grunts. He didn’t want to talk about his classes or his courses next semester. Tilden and Milton had signed him up for his new classes; they’d consulted with him, but the only class he could remember or cared about was Russian. His schedule was going to have to change anyway after the business in history. Milton had made it abundantly clear that he was repeating the class. He’d made some noise about putting Luke in the honors section, which sounded dreadful. Luke hoped he’d misunderstood him. If he couldn’t pass the regular class, he didn’t have a prayer in the honors class.

Tilden rested his hand against the small of Luke’s back. “Luke, Mike, go wait for me in the study. I’ll be right in once I get my parents settled.”

“You had to open your mouth and get us both in trouble,” Mike squawked as soon as they were alone in the study.

“Me? You’re the one who had to bring up history.”

“Well, who was stupid enough to cheat in front of eagle-eyed Milton?”

“Shut up! At least, I’m trusted out of a top’s sight. I don’t run off every two seconds.”

Mike grabbed Luke’s shirt and pushed him back toward the sofa directly into the end table. Luke put his arm out behind himself to catch his balance and swept the table lamp to the floor with a crash. Both young men froze.

“Oh, shit! We’re cooked now,” Mike said, having removed his hands from Luke’s shirt.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Come on let’s get this swept up. Maybe Tilden was out in the car getting the luggage and didn’t hear.”

“And he’s not going to notice the lamp’s missing? I think he’s got more brain cells than that.” Luke flopped down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. “I really didn’t want to get spanked today.”

“I’m sorry.” Mike squeezed Luke’s shoulder.

“Get your hands off me, you prick,” Luke spat.

“Fine,” Mike said in a huff. “It’s not like I want to get spanked either. Milton dragged me off the day your dad showed up and spanked me.”

“What? Milton? I didn’t think he would spank us.”

“Trust me, he will if you push him hard enough. I know,” Mike said with a wry grin.

“Was it bad?”

“I wasn’t sore the next day if that’s what you mean. I don’t think it was nearly as bad as it could’ve been. I expect Sheldon would’ve gotten it a lot harder, and I think Tilden will paddle me for fighting with you. I’m really not looking forward to that.”

“Do you think he’ll paddle me?” Luke asked, his voice shaking.

“I doubt it,” Mike said with a shrug. “I’m the one who’s short leashed. I just dug my hole a little deeper. I’ll be grounded until Christmas at this rate.”

“It takes two to tango.”

“Stop being so nice. I started it.” Mike bent down and kissed Luke. “I know I’m an asshole, but you know I do love you.”

“We can suffer together,” Luke said with a grin. “It’s not so embarrassing when we both look freshly spanked at dinner.”

“You’re right,” Mike said with a groan. “But unless Tilden’s parents are dense, they’re going to know. This should be fun.”

“Don’t remind me. Should I try my sweet angelic expression? Maybe it will get us off.” Luke said with a sweet smile, his eyes wide and innocent.

“With Tilden,” Mike snorted. “He sees right through me.”

“Me too. Come on lets get this glass picked up. Cleaning up should at least be worth some brownie points. I’ll get the broom.” Luke peered out the door and glanced down the hall. No one was in sight. Hopefully Tilden was in the spare bedroom helping his parents unpack. Luke slipped into the kitchen and practically ran into Tilden.

“Luke, didn’t I tell you to wait in the study?” Tilden asked softly, resting his hand on Luke’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir.” Luke stared at his feet—in for a penny in for a pound. “We broke the lamp next to the sofa.”

“Do I want to know how?” Tilden asked, his eyebrows rising to his hairline.

“I don’t think so.”

Tilden wrapped his arm around Luke and pulled his young partner into his chest. “OK, but you will have to tell me some time. Hang on while I get Milton.”

“We’re OK now,” Luke protested quickly. “We don’t need watched.”

“I prefer not to replace any more furniture. Who makes the decisions around here?” Tilden asked with more sharpness in his voice.

“You do, sir,” Luke said, dropping his eyes to his shoes.

“That’s right.” Tilden bent down and kissed Luke’s forehead. “Luka, it’s not because I don’t trust you and Misha; I just don’t want you two in more trouble than you’re prepared to handle.”

Luke nodded and leaned into Tilden. Privately he thought he was already in more trouble than he wanted to handle.

Tilden pushed the buttons on the phone to ring the second floor and had a brief conversation with Milton who appeared on the steps to the kitchen almost instantaneously. He nodded at Tilden and Luke, took Luke’s hand, and drew him away from Tilden. “Everything all right here?” he asked both Luke and Tilden.

Luke looked at the floor and could feel his ears reddening. He didn’t want a babysitter. 

“I think the only casualty is the lamp, but I thought reinforcements might be helpful before I had to call in the blue helmets of the United Nations.” Tilden said and directed a small smile at Luke.

“Fighting,” Milton said, giving Luke a stare that made Luke wish he could fall through the floor. “You get your parents settled; I’ll keep the peace.” Milton put his hand on the small of Luke’s back and gave him a gentle push toward the study.

“I need to get the broom and dustpan,” Luke said, his throat so dry the words were almost inaudible.

“What’s that, boy?” Milton asked sharply.

Luke tried again, but this time nothing came out.

Milton sighed. “I think you said you wanted the broom and dustpan. Go ahead and get them.”

Luke scurried for the pantry and the broom. Milton sounded beyond unhappy with him, and after Mike’s tale he didn’t want to find himself over Milton’s knee. Milton could freeze Luke in his tracks with his voice alone; the possibility of corporal punishment from him was terrifying. 

Milton looped his arm around Luke’s shoulders as he came back with the broom and dustpan. “Do I really seem that scary?”

Luke swallowed hard, keeping his eyes fixed firmly of the floor. “I guess not, sir.”

Milton squeezed Luke’s shoulder and put his hand under Luke’s chin. “You’re not Mike. I’m only going to keep you company until Tilden’s free.”

Luke looked at Milton, surprised.

“Yes, it’s obvious,” Milton said with a smile, “and I know boys talk.” Milton bent down and kissed Luke’s forehead. “Let’s get the mess cleaned up.”

 

****

Tilden sighed as he watched Milton and Luke go back down the hall and rubbed his temples. He’d hoped for a quiet weekend. He poured himself a glass of water, drank deeply, and filled two more glasses for his parents.  Tilden had come in the kitchen for water, not to referee a fight between his partners. Tension in a threesome was inevitable, but he hardly felt strong enough to manage it today.

Tilden put two water glasses on a tray and headed toward the spare bedroom. His mother was unpacking with her usual whirlwind of efficiency while his dad sat in the armchair watching her with a slightly bewildered expression on his face. His dad was a brilliant linguist, but he muddled through ordinary life with a puzzled and faintly bemused expression on his face. Tilden handed his dad a glass and turned to his mom. “You don’t have to have all your suitcases unpacked in five minutes, nobody’s timing you.”

“No use waiting. It needs done.” Tilden’s mom walked toward her son and handed him a stack of clothes. “Can you put these in the top drawer?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Dorothy, honey,” Tilden’s dad said from the chair. “He looks exhausted. Don’t put him to work.”

“It’s OK, Dad,” Tilden said and with an effort gave his dad a gentle smile. 

“Some people consider me a blithering idiot outside of the classroom, but I can tell you’re tired. Sit down, put your feet up, and catch your breath. I can only cope with one person tidying up the world, and your mother claimed the job first.”

Tilden set the neatly folded clothes in the drawer and then dropped down on bed, resting his chin in his hands. His mom gave him a piercing look. “Arthur’s right. You look exhausted. Have you been staying up to all hours of the night grading papers? Those young men aren’t keeping you up all night, are they?”

“Mom!” Tilden knew he was blushing a flaming red. He wasn’t discussing his relationship with his two partners with his mom, not that she probably hadn’t guessed. She wasn’t naive about the more interesting domestic relationships, and his parents had visited enough to see Milton and Sheldon in action. Sheldon didn’t understand the word discreet.

“Honey, is everything OK?” his mom asked, sitting on the bed next to him. “Luke’s the blond you pulled up to the front seat, the quiet one.”

“He’s not usually this quiet. It’s been hard for him.”

“I can only imagine,” she said as she kissed her son’s cheek. “Is Luke’s mom supportive of this relationship?”

“I don’t know,” Tilden said wearily, no longer trying to hide his tiredness.  “She lives in Texas, and God knows where Mike’s parents are. Wandering around the Indian sub-continent, I expect.”

“You mean you have two partners without parental support? They’re hardly more than children,” Tilden’s mom said with horror.

“Before you start about me robbing the cradle, they’re both over twenty. High school took a little longer than normal for both of them.”

“Honey, that’s not what I meant. It’s just children that age need parental support. Arthur, could you imagine abandoning your child at twenty?”

“No, dear, but they have our son. He’s very responsible.”

“I know,” Tilden’s mom said to his dad, “but remember his first boyfriend.”

“Mom, I’m sitting right here, and yes, I remember. Please, don’t remind me. They’re older than I was when I went out with Randall.”

“What ever did you see in that boy with his tattoos and greasy hair? Didn’t he also have a motorbike?” his mom asked.

“Yes, the bike was the best part. I had more intelligible conversations with his bike than I ever had with him. To be young and foolish again,” Tilden said with a laugh. “Luke and Mike have far more sense about relationships than I had at that age.”

“What can we do to help, honey?” his mom asked, patting Tilden’s hand.

“Dorothy, I’m sure he has it covered. Our son has always been more than capable.”

“Dear, I know that, but he’s still our son no matter how old he is, and his two young partners don’t seem to have any parents. The poor dears.”

Tilden interrupted before his parents could argue further. As always, they argued without heat or malice; it was just the way they interacted with each other. “Actually, I could use your help. Both of them have had some dreadful experience with their parents if you could just try to seem interested in them—”

“Honey,” his mom interjected. “Of course we’re interested in them. They’re your partners and part of the family. We were hoping to take them out, maybe go into Boston with them.”

“That would be great. Mike needs to go to the art museum, and we didn’t make it the last time we were in Boston.” Tilden had no intention of sharing what had happened on the last trip to Boston.

“Oh, we would love to. Your father particularly loves the modern art collection.”

“Thanks,” Tilden said. “Dad, can I ask a big favor of you?”

“Of course.” Tilden’s dad had looked up with an intense expression, not the usual bemused professor act that he wore in public. “What do you need? You know the University of Michigan would love to have you if that’s what you’re concerned about. Rumors have been swirling around about the health of Banner’s foreign language program.”

“Dad, it’s not about me, but Michigan will be my first choice if I ever leave Banner. It’s about Luke.”

“How can I help?”

“He has a gift for foreign languages. I was hoping you could talk to him, encourage him. He’s had a hard time academically, and his confidence is about zero.”

“You know, I’m always happy to talk about foreign languages, much to many people’s dismay.” Tilden’s dad smiled and his eyes twinkled with amusement; their obsession with foreign languages was an inside joke between the two of them. “He’s taking Russian, I assume. Any others?”

“Not now. I’m going to encourage a second language next fall.”

“What kind of academic difficulties?” Tilden’s mom asked. She’d taught high school English for years at Ann Arbor Prep and had been the assistant head for the last seven before her retirement last year. She’d lasted less than two months in retirement and was now teaching part time at a local montessori school.

“He graduated from high school with a piece of paper and not much else. He even did a PG year, and I could swear that boy has never taken a note in his life.”

“Is he in Milton’s survey history class? I’ve seen what he asks of his freshmen,” his mom said. “Is he surviving?”

Tilden didn’t say anything, but he knew his mom could read his expression.

“Oh, that poor boy. Have you been able to keep Milton from throttling him?”

“Mom,” Tilden said with some exasperation. “I keep telling you Milton’s not as scary as he appears. He’s been very patient with Luke, but Luke will have to repeat the course. Now if Milton ever meets Luke’s high school teachers, they’d better run.”

“Milton’s a top isn’t he, and Sheldon’s his brat?”

“Mom,” Tilden exclaimed, feeling his face growing red again. “I don’t think I should talk about my best friend’s lifestyle.”

“I take it you haven’t seen the previews for that television show you’re on,” his dad said dryly. “Most unusual.”

“Dad, I didn’t think you guys watched television.”

“They advertised it during the Michigan- Ohio State game. It was hard to miss,” Tilden’s dad said. 

“Arthur, I think we’ve covered this subject enough,” Tilden’s mom said as she finished the unpacking. “Tilden probably needs to get back to his partners. I assume they were responsible for the crash I heard earlier.”

Tilden nodded. There was no use denying it now that he knew she’d heard it; lamps didn’t spontaneously fall to the floor, and his mom would notice. She’d given him that lamp. The lamp in question had been an unattractive Tiffany replica, and Tilden wasn’t upset by its demise. Hopefully his mom wouldn’t replace it with something worse. “I think I need a few minutes with Mike and Luke. Mace and Trent put a few things together in the kitchen, which means it will be edible, if you want a snack. Dinner’s planned for six.”

“So even with two partners, they still haven’t got you domesticated in the kitchen,” his mom said with a smile.

“Afraid not. Mike can managed survival food: Ramen, macaroni and cheese, and frozen pizza. Trent and Mace are working on improving their repertoire. They’ve given up on me.”

Tilden smiled and started to walk out of the bedroom when his dad reached out and touched his arm. “Tilden, I just want to tell you that Dorothy and I support you in whatever you do. This relationship may seem—um—unorthodox to us, but we trust you and love you, and we will do all we can to welcome your boys into the family. And I’ll talk to Luke.”

“Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom.” Tilden reached down and hugged his dad.

 

 

The study was quiet when Tilden entered. Milton was sitting on one end of the sofa and Luke was curled into a tiny ball at the other end, his arms wrapped around his knees. Mike was in the armchair, staring at the wall and sniffling softly as if he were on the verge of tears.

“Ah, Tilden, did you get your parents settled?” Milton asked.

“Yes. Everything quiet here?”

“They’ve been perfect angels,” Milton said with a slight smile.

Tilden looked at his two partners; they were both giving him their best example of a combined innocent and contrite look. “I’m sure they are with you sitting here. Can I talk to you a minute?”

Milton snapped his fingers. “Luke stand in the corner by the desk, Mike over by the bookcases.” Tilden was surprised by the sharpness of Milton’s tone, but both boys scrambled to obey without a second thought. “Don’t even think about moving while we step out.”

Tilden trailed Milton out of the room, feeling nearly as intimidated by the tone as his partners had been. As soon as they had shut the study door, Milton spun around, capturing Tilden in his steady gaze. “You don’t want to spank them, do you?”

“How did you know? And I take it you think I should.”

“What is the rule in this house?”

“If you’re fighting or get another submissive in trouble, you get paddled,” Tilden said, feeling like a submissive in trouble himself.

“It’s pretty clear, isn’t it?” Milton raised his dark eyebrows into his hairline.

“Yes,” Tilden said, swallowing hard. “It’s just...”

“I know,” Milton said, wrapping his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “It’s been a rocky few week for all three of you. For this reason, your boys most need the clarity right now. They need to know that you’ve got them and will make their world safe and secure. You’re a good dominant because your instinct is to nurture, not be the tough guy. But in this case, you need to find your spine.”

“Milton, it’s not that easy.”

“Don’t whine at me, my boy,” Milton snapped, lightly dusting Tilden’s seat with his hand.

“Hey, I’m not your boy.”

“Then don’t act like one,” Milton said with a grin. “Don’t think I don’t know that you wouldn’t rather take them to bed than put them over your knee. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and you get the advantage of learning from my mistakes.” Milton squeezed Tilden’s shoulder and kissed the side of his face. “I know you can do the right thing; you love those boys.”

“Milton, do you think I could hand spank them and not paddle them?”

Milton pulled on his beard, took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. “My first thought was no, but they did stop fighting on their own, and it’s the first time. For those two I think it might work. Afterwards I’d keep them busy with lines or something because if they get into it again today you’ll have to give them a hard paddling. Why don’t you take them up to the turret room. I’ll chase Sheldon down here, and we’ll vacuum, do the laundry, and wash the dishes. That should cover the noise.”

“Thanks, but it’s not like my folks don’t know. I guess they’ve been running some scary ads on TV, and we’re the stars.”

“Knowing about it in the abstract and hearing about it in person are two different things. We’ll cover for you. Go get it done.”

 

 

Both his brats were in their designated corners. Luke was leaning his head against the wall and looked like he was silently crying, and Mike was fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Come here, boys.” Tilden opened his arms and engulfed both his partners in a hug.

“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” Luke said, peeking up at Tilden from under his long, golden lashes.

“What do you think?”

“Yeah.” Mike sighed.

Tilden made his voice stern, even though he felt anything but stern at the moment. “You two were only in a little trouble for pestering each other in the car, but fighting will not be tolerated. Let’s go upstairs and take care of it. I don’t want to give my parents an in stereo rendition of our private life.” Tilden took a hand of each of his young men and led them upstairs into the turret room. Here behind multiple closed doors and with Milton and Sheldon’s noisy distractions they should have as much privacy as possible in a household with three couples and visiting parents.

“Sit down, boys,” Tilden said, pointing to the bed. “So what got in to you two today? Besides being stressed out and exhausted, which I can more than understand.” Tilden rested his hand on Mike’s shoulder and ran his fingers through Luke’s blond curls.

“I started it. Luke shouldn’t be in trouble,” Mike said at first softly, then louder with more conviction. “I grabbed him and pushed him into the lamp.”

“No, it’s my fault. I provoked you,” Luke interrupted.

“Boys, I think there is enough blame to go around. My question is what should you have done instead?”

“Talked to you,” Luke said, ducking his head and hiding his face behind his long hair.

“That would’ve been a good start.” Tilden sat down on the bed between his two partners and wrapped an arm around each of them. “We’re in a threesome; it’s very important that we communicate with each other. And if it’s something you’re not comfortable talking to me about, you can always go to Trent or Milton if you need a neutral top. They’ll make sure I’m told if they think I need to know.”

“Milton will,” Mike mumbled under his breath, soft enough that he probably hoped Tilden wouldn’t make out the words. “You talked to him about punishing us, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. He’s an experienced top, and I wanted his advice.”

“He’s a hard ass,” Mike muttered.

“He’s that too,” Tilden said with a laugh, “but don’t let him hear you say that. You have to remember that he loves both of you and would cut off his right arm to help us.”

“I know,” Mike said, plucking at his pants seam. “I’m sorry. It’s just hard.”

Tilden leaned over and kissed the top on Mike’s head. “I know, Misha. It’s hard for me sometimes too. I’m going to spank both of you for your little fight in the study.”

Both his partners groaned. Luke brushed back a tear and leaned harder into Tilden’s shoulder. “But we stopped fighting on our own,” Mike complained.

“Yes, and I’m proud of you for that, but it doesn’t change that you were fighting. Because you stopped, I’m going to spank you, not paddle you. In this house, fighting would usually be handled with a paddle.”

“Wonderful,” Mike groused. “I can get my ass half torched instead of fully torched.”

“Do you need me to paddle you?” Tilden asked, pinning Mike in a hard stare.

“No, sir,” Mike said, quickly backtracking. 

“Misha, stand up and drop your jeans. Luka, go stand in the corner.”

The tears flowed freely down Luke’s face. Tilden heard him sniffle and mumble, “I hate this.”

“Luka, _druzhok_ , it will be over soon.” Tilden lifted Luke to his feet and steered him into the corner, kissing the soft curls before he resumed his seat on the bed. Tilden wanted to agree with Luke; he hated doing this. Why did submissives think tops always enjoyed spanking them? A little fun before a tumble in bed, Tilden could see that, but this was different. This was more complicated, a requirement of a lifestyle that he now lived, but still didn’t fully understand.

Mike had stood up, and his hands hovered around the waistband of his pants, but they were still firmly up.

“Mishenka.” Mike let Tilden grab his hand and guide him into position, but he still made no effort to take down his pants. “Are we good to do this?”

Mike nodded and fumbled with the snap. Tilden unfastened Mike’s pants and pushed them down as he drew his partner over his knee.

“What is this spanking for?”

“For fighting with Luke.”

“How could you have avoided it?”

“Not pushed him into the lamp.”

“What else?” Tilden asked, making his voice sharper.

“Not fighting, talking to you.”

“ _Spasibo,_ ” Tilden ran his hand down his partner’s back before he pulled down Mike’s boxers. Tilden spanked fast. He thought he wanted this done even more than his two partners did. Tilden listened to the sound of Mike’s protest and stopped when Mike’s cries were of acceptance and contrition. During the spanking, Tilden had watched Luke out of the corner of his eye. Luke had started to cry hard as soon as the first spank had resonated through the room.

Mike was crying equally hard when Tilden wrapped his arms around his dark-haired partner and drew him to his feet, letting Mike bury his face in Tilden’s shoulder. “That’s all. I love you.” Tilden dropped a kiss on Mike’s forehead before tracing his thumb down a wet cheek. Mike was a beautiful boy; even in tears he was beautiful. Tilden held Mike until the crying had slowed to sniffles and choked sobs before he guided his partner to the corner and took Luke’s hand.

Luke, always the gentler and the more easily frightened, threw himself into Tilden’s chest, sobbing harshly. Tilden wrapped his arms tightly around his wailing partner and guided him over to the bed before settling Luke between his knees. Tilden murmured reassurances in a mixture of Russian and English. He wasn’t going to spank a partner who was hysterical. Milton would probably give Luke a good shake or stick him under a cold shower for this display, but Tilden didn’t have the heart; he merely waited, stroking Luke’s blond curls until his breathing calmed and the sobs quieted. “OK?”

Luke nodded.

Tilden didn’t ask Luke to drop his pants; instead, Tilden unfastened them, slid down Luke’s boxers, and pulled Luke over his knee. Tilden started spanking immediately, not giving Luke a chance to work himself up again. Luke was limp across Tilden’s lap when Tilden’s hand changed from swats to light stroking. Tilden lifted Luke to a sitting position, cradling him for a few minutes before standing his partner on his feet. Tilden wrapped his arm around his partner, letting his touch and actions convey the depth of his feelings. He guided Luke over to where Mike was standing.

Mike was still crying; Tilden thought it was more in sympathy for Luke than any residual pain from the spanking. Tilden softly ran his fingers along the back of Mike’s neck between his hairline and collar. “Mishenka, come sit with us.”

Mike spun around and threw his arms around Luke. “Luke, I’m so sorry.”

Luke untangled himself from Tilden’s grasp and returned Mike’s hug. “Mike, it’s OK. I think we both lived.”

Tilden bit his lip to keep from laughing at the sincerity in Luke’s voice. “Boys, come lie down with me. I’m feeling lonely over here.” Tilden was pleased to see both his partners look up and smile. Tilden ruffled Luke’s hair and gave Mike a friendly shove towards the bed. Tilden toed off his shoes and settled between his two partners with a sigh.

 

 

A sharp tap on the door woke Tilden. “Come in,” he whispered, mindful that Mike and Luke were still sleeping. Tilden opened his eyes, unwinding one arm from his blond-haired partner and absently running his fingers through Mike’s hair. Mike had fallen asleep with his head resting on Tilden’s chest.

“I hate to disturb you, but the natives are getting restless,” Milton said, his eyes laughing behind his glasses. “Mace is making noise about dinner getting ruined.”

“What time is it?” Tilden said sleepily. Outside the sky was dark and the replicated gas lamps had ben lit for the night.

“Six thirty.”

“Dinner was supposed to be at six.”

“Yes, and we thought you needed a little extra sleep. You have thirty minutes before dinner is served in the dining room.”

“Does that mean what I think it does, jackets and ties?” Tilden asked.

“Yes, it will be good for them.”

“I’m not even sure if they own a coat and tie.”

“Luke can borrow from Sheldon if he needs to, and I’m sure Mike can wear yours. I think I’ve seen him in your pants a few times, and I’ve heard more than enough complaining that you’re the clothes police.”

“He exaggerates,” Tilden said.

“Of course he does,” Milton said with a knowing smile. “Wait until he’s had a few more lessons from Sheldon. Dinner in thirty minutes—don’t be late.”

Tilden watched his friend leave. Milton did this so naturally, with an easy confidence that Tilden felt he would never have, and even on his best days he felt as if he still faked it over fifty percent of the time. Who said being a top was easy? Tilden thought, dragging himself from the bed. At least he had Milton’s experience to lean on, unlike the poor vet, who shared Tilden’s plight as the newest reality TV star, and his brat. Tilden wondered if Brad had taken their advice or if it had sailed right over his head. Sheldon had certainly tried to make Brad and Cotton understand their new lifestyle. Milton wasn’t subtle or circumspect when he offered advice to those he considered his immediate family. Tilden smiled ruefully. He sometimes thought Milton would spank him, top or not, but Tilden didn’t envy Brad, forging a path alone. Tilden could live with Milton’s ire, and even as the dominant side of the family he understood, the terror, the fierce loyalty, and the healthy sex appeal than Milton projected at his most dominant. 

Tilden watched his two sleeping partners. He hated to wake them, but Milton had made it clear that they were to be dressed and presentable for dinner in thirty minutes. Less than thirty minutes, Tilden thought, looking at his watch. He was cutting it close to get those two roused, out of bed, and fitted into a tie. Of course that had been Milton’s plan all along. A formal dinner would keep Luke and Mike’s mind on the tie and tight collar and not on their families. Sitting on those hard dining room chairs would remind Sheldon to watch his tongue. Tilden had seen Milton’s partner around the house this evening, and he was sore. He’d been over Milton’s knee for some reason. Tilden would be occupied organizing the proper forks for all three of them and passing the silver rather than fretting over his parents’ reaction to his two young partners. Milton did always play to win.

Tilden hassled his two young partners through a shower and into dress clothes. If they hadn’t needed to appear at dinner, Tilden thought they might still be enjoying the pleasures of the shower. Luke had on a blue blazer and a yellow power tie; Mike had been outfitted with Tilden’s tweed jacket and green tie with gold flecks.

“I hate this,” Luke said, tugging at the sleeves of his blue blazer to straighten it. “I feel like I’m going to the club with my dad.”

“I’m sure the food will be much better, and I hope we’re better company than your dad,” Tilden said, hooking his arm around Luke and kissing him on the cheek.”

“Who’s idea was all this formal stuff?” Mike said, his voice irritated. “Don’t answer. I already know. It was Milton’s. He likes this kind of thing.”

“Behave,” Tilden said, landing a light swat on his partner’s hip. “He believes in showing guests proper hospitality.”

“Why don’t you just say it?” Mike said with exasperation. “He just wants to keep us busy.”

“Well, that too,” Tilden said with a laugh. “Come on. Let’s show him what a nice polite family we can be.”

 

 

The dining room was set with the delicate, hand-wash only china, which Milton’s granddad had given him for his wedding with Sheldon. Mace was lighting the final candle on the table. Even he was dressed in khakis and a blazer with a bolo for a tie. 

“How many times did Milton and Trent have to send you upstairs to get you out of jeans and cowboy boots?” Tilden asked Mace.

“Only twice. My jeans were ironed,” Mace complained.

“My parents will appreciate the effort. Thanks.”

“For you, Tilden, even I will wear khakis. Sit down. I’ll let Trent know we’re ready. He’s keeping famine at bay in the living room with hors-d'oeuvres.”

Mace called out the door that dinner was served, and the rest of the family came in. Milton and Sheldon looked the most comfortable in crisp khakis and blue blazers with nearly matching ties. Tilden knew that Milton was responsible for the neat creases on the pants; Sheldon only moved his clean clothes from the top of the dryer to his dresser with constant prodding and threats to donate them all to the needy. Tilden’s dad was in a rumpled jacket and a tie with unraveling ends. Both jacket and tie looked as if they’d been crumpled in a musty corner of his office to be pulled out anytime formal attire was required. Tilden’s mom was dressed as he remembered her from endless childhood recitals and academic awards: conservative wool pants, a blouse, and a string of pearls at her throat. They seemed like such opposites, but despite the underlying bickering and grumbling, Tilden thought they had a happy and satisfying marriage.They both enjoyed many of the same hobbies; Tilden could only hope that his threesome would last that long.

Mace and Trent had outdone themselves with the dinner preparation. Even Luke, the ever picky eater, was chomping through the roast beef and mashed potatoes with enthusiasm. He did eyeball the brussels sprouts with a look of deepening suspicion. He stuck his fork in one and moved it around the plate before deciding to have another bite of mashed potatoes.

“I take it you don’t much like Mace’s billiard balls either,” Sheldon smirked.

“The green beans didn’t look good this week, and I fixed the brussels sprouts so don’t fuss at Mace,” Trent said. “Plus you should be thankful they’re not mushy.”

“I think they’re delicious,” Tilden’s mom said.

“Would you like mine?” Sheldon joked.

“Sheldon, enough,” Milton reprimanded, “I think we’ve discussed that topic more than thoroughly. How’s your current book coming along, Arthur?”

“Just fine. Just fine. You know me it’s already twice as long as expected. I’ve been researching some fascinating details on the relationship between Estonian, Hungarian, and Finnish.”

“Oh, Arthur, I think you can even exhaust your son’s penchant for foreign language when you discuss that book,” Dorothy said. “You haven’t told your son about our summer plans. We’re going to rent a house up in the peninsula on Lake Michigan. We thought you and your young men might want to spend the summer with us. The rest of you could come too during your vacations.”

“That sounds nice, Mom. I don’t know yet. It depends what Mike and Luke want, and I’ve been offered a summer position at the Vermont Foreign Language Institute.”

“Tilden, why didn’t you tell me?,” his dad queried. “That’s great. That’s the most prestigious summer program in the country. What position?”

“Head of third year,” Tilden said, suddenly fascinated by cutting his meat into tiny particles.

“You are going to accept it, aren’t you? That is quite an honor.”

“I know, Dad, but I don’t want to make Luke and Mike study Russian all summer, and I don’t want to leave them for eleven weeks.” Tilden watched Luke and Mike, who were now staring at him intently, as was Milton, who didn’t look happy. Tilden hadn’t told Milton who with all his sensibility would without question tell his friend to take the position and drag his two boys along kicking and screaming.

“They’d get a whole year of Russian out the way in a short, painless summer and still have time for a few weeks on the lake. I think in sounds idyllic,” Milton said without a trace of sarcasm.

Who was he kidding? Tilden thought. Painless for who? Tilden took a sip of water to camouflage the snort that was trying to escape his throat. “We’ll think about it,” Tilden said, trying to put a note of finality into his voice.

“I think we should do it,” Mike said. He’d put his cutlery down, his brows furrowed over his dark eyes. “Luke’s into this Russian stuff, and I can get my language requirement out of the way. I can survive a summer of hell, knowing I’ll be done with second year Russian.”

“We don’t have to decide this right now,” Tilden interjected.

“Yes, we do,” Mike insisted. “Luke, you want to go, don’t you?”

Luke nodded but Tilden suspected he just wanted to stay out of the conversation.

“Luka, Misha, I don’t think this is an appropriate dinner conversation.” Tilden tried to put conviction and authority in his voice.

“I think it’s more than appropriate dinner conversation,” Milton said, his voice taking on a deep timbre that meant he was very serious. “Everybody who most cares about you is sitting at this table. Your father, who has taught foreign languages for years, understands the value of this position. Your partners have given you their blessing, and your best friends are encouraging it.” Milton glanced around the table to include Sheldon, Trent, and Mace in his last comment.

“I think I’ve been thoroughly out flanked,” Tilden said. “Luka, are you sure about this?”

“How bad could it be? It’s only the summer.”

“You have to sign a pledge to speak only Russian, and it’s enforced.”

Luke shrugged “We already speak Russian here.” 

“Not all the time.”

“That won’t be bad,” Mike said. “We won’t understand half the lectures you’re always handing out. We’ll have a genuine excuse that we misunderstood because of our piddling Russian vocabulary.”

Tilden couldn’t help but smile. Mike and Luke would both try that. Tilden would have to teach them the appropriate vocabulary. Great, he would have the only Russian students who knew the verbs to spank, to paddle, and to go to the corner. Tilden was already thinking of the summer as a done deal. No, he hadn’t agreed to it yet. What was the use? Milton would keep after him until Tilden consented. “Luka, Misha, are you sure? It’s a big commitment for all of us, and I’ll be busy teaching and you studying. There are four contact hours a day and approximately twice that amount of time will need to be spent studying.”

“It’s not nearly as grim as you’re making it sound,” Milton said. “We both did third year Russian there, and we spent ample time goofing off on the weekends.”

“Yeah, if you call dealing with your irate granddad goofing off and those crazy friends of yours from the Green Mountain Club,” Tilden said with a raised eyebrow.

“Let’s just say it was a very educational summer,” Milton said with a laugh.

“What happened between you two?” Sheldon asked, his radar for embarrassing stories awakened.

“Not now,” Milton and Tilden both said together.

“Why not? This sounds interesting and embarrassing as hell,” Sheldon pushed. “You’re both blushing.”

“I said not now,” Milton repeated more firmly. “This is not the appropriate forum.”

“You’re no fun,” Sheldon whined.

“Do you need to be excused?”

Tilden could tell that Sheldon recognized Milton’s tone for the warning it was. “No, sir.” Sheldon answered, his eyes down on the plate, but not totally hiding their teasing glint. He was playing, going just to the edge with Tilden’s parents at the table.

Tilden hastily reached for the butter, trying to hide his own embarrassment. His parents might know in the abstract, but he wasn’t ready for one of Sheldon’s little games.

“Thank you,” Milton said softly and shot a sympathetic glance at Tilden. Milton didn’t have this problem; his only family was in the lifestyle.

Tilden watched his parents who were staring at Milton as if he had three heads. Tilden’s mom quickly busied herself by asking for more gravy and slathering it on the remnants of her mashed potatoes, and his dad suddenly became very interested in the brussels sprouts,  a vegetable which he tolerated only slightly more than Luke. Milton had always been discreet about the special aspects of his relationship with Sheldon, but he’d just reprimanded him in public. Well it wasn’t exactly a great secret anymore. Tomorrow night Luke, Tilden, and probably Mike would be all over national TV. 

Dinner was finished with uncomfortable glances and pointless small talk. Mace and Trent produced two delightful pies, pumpkin and pecan. Tilden’s mom bravely tried to steer the conversation towards regional dessert preferences. “I thought we’d have something with cranberries.”

“Mace loves pecan pie,” Trent said with a lazy smile. “He’ll take any excuse to convince me to make it. Tilden likes cranberries also—something about reminding him of berries in Russia.”

“Berry picking is almost as popular as mushroom gathering,” Tilden said, warming to the subject. “There are even songs about berry bushes. I’m sure everybody’s heard of Kalinka. _Kalinka kalinka kalinka moya! V sadu yagoda malinka, malinka moya!_ ”

“I’ll do something with cranberries tomorrow night,” Mace said. “Will that make all you folks happy?”

“Mace, you know your cooking makes me happy,” Tilden said. “It saves everybody from mine.”

“Your cooking is cruel and unusual punishment,” Mace shot back. “Right in line with the dreadful Soviet cafeteria food you like to reminisce about.”

“Even I don’t serve sugared water with one piece of fruit and call it _kompot,_ ” Tilden said, pretending to be hurt.

“No, your specialty is scorched pans,” Milton teased. “But on a more serious note, don’t you and your two partners have a meeting tomorrow night?”

“Ugh, I forgot. Is that tomorrow?” Tilden said.

“What meeting?” Mike asked.

“After Luke and I were partnered on _Meet Your Mate_ , I had to clear our relationship with the administration. I, in a moment of less than rational thought, offered our services for a support group. It’s tomorrow at seven.” He should have said a submissive support group, but Tilden couldn’t quite voice that word in front of his parents. His reticence made no logical sense; Sheldon had just played the submissive at the dinner table, but still to say it aloud...

“Who goes to a meeting on a college campus on Saturday night?” Luke asked.

“Hopefully nobody,” Mike said.

“You’ll miss the first episode of _Meet Your Mate_ ,” Sheldon said.

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Tilden rolled his eyes. “I’ve been looking forward to it all fall.”

“I’ll get a tape for you,” Sheldon said with a wide grin.

“I’m sure you will.” Tilden stood and started to clear the dishes.

“Leave them,” Milton interrupted. “I’ll have Sheldon do them. He can wash and iron the napkins also.”

“That’s not fair,” Sheldon pouted.

“Your conversation at dinner,” Milton said, ruffling his partner’s hair. “And have you forgotten yesterday? You’ve been avoiding hard chairs all day.”

“No, I’ll get right on the ironing, sir. Your boy at your command.”

“Good,” Milton said with a wicked grin.

Tilden groaned silently; this was more information than his parents needed to know. Trent must have sensed Tilden’s discomfort, or at least he wanted to stop the conversation from getting more detailed, because he started aggressively pushing more coffee and tea on everyone. With Trent’s assistance, Tilden was able to keep the rest of the evening’s conversation on the safe topics of food and a proposed trip into Boston. Milton had been right; the formal dinner had taken nearly two hours, and only a small amount of idle chit-chat was needed in front of the TV before Tilden could plead a desire for an early night and excuse himself and his two partners for the evening. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

**Chapter 5**

 

Mike stretched and looked at the clock; it was only seven thirty. What college boy got up at seven thirty on a Saturday? Ones who got chased into bed at nine, not that they had immediately gone to sleep. Once Tilden had convinced them that his parents didn’t believe that they lived in a monastery, they enjoyed some rough and tumble sports with the lights out. Mike watched the steady rise and fall of Tilden’s chest; Luke’s fair head lifted with each breath. Neither of his partners looked like they were ready to charge from bed and attack the day.

Mike slid out of bed, careful not  to jostle his partners. Tilden was still keeping him close,  and Mike hoped he wouldn’t be in trouble for getting up on his own. He padded into the bathroom and then out to the kitchen. Trent and Mace were performing their usual dance from stove to countertop to refrigerator. Mike watched from the doorway, admiring the ease with which they worked together, an occasional brush of the shoulder or a sidelong smile, but no words were exchanged.

“Uh—Trent.” Mike cleared his throat.

“Mike, I didn’t see you there. Come on in. Do you want some juice?”

“Yeah, orange, please. Trent—um—can you...”

“I'll tell Tilden you’re with me, kiddo.” Trent ruffled Mike’s short hair. 

“What do you want for breakfast?” Mace asked in his slow drawl.

“It’s your choice, kid. You’re up first,” Trent added.

“Could we have corn cakes?” Mike remembered the summer he spent with Frank, Caleb, and Tommy after his aborted letterbox bombing experience. They’d had corn cakes every Sunday. It was the only time he remembered real breakfast, not a yogurt or toast snatched on the way out the door, until he came here.

“White or yellow cornmeal?” Trent asked.

“There’s a difference?”

“Yellow is coarser and has a stronger taste,” Trent replied. “We’ll try that. Let me know if it’s what you had in mind.” Trent pulled two bowls from a cabinet overhead. “Come over here. I’ll show you how to make real Johnny cakes.”

Mike was put to work, heating the milk and stirring in the cornmeal. Tilden’s dad drifted into the kitchen sometime during the process. Mace seemed familiar enough with him to offer a glass of juice, a bowl of fruit, and the newspaper without asking. Arthur nodded absently at Mike before burying himself in the newspaper. As he read, he made occasional grunts of disagreement.

“So what’s the depressing news for today?” Trent asked as he took the bowl from Mike. “That’s plenty mixed. Go set the table.”

“The usual: school budget cuts, people complaining about the mandatory recycling, and some fool waxing elegantly about the old-fashioned justice system in Texas.” Arthur picked up his fruit bowl to let Mike put a placemat underneath it. “Here,  I can help. I don’t want Dorothy to think I was mooching off your hospitality.”

“You can put the water glasses on the table. They’re in the cabinet above the sink,” Mace said as he dropped bacon into the frying pan.  

Mike watched Arthur amble around the table, haphazardly placing each glass. His height and facial features were similar to Tilden’s, but his actions couldn’t be more different. Tilden moved purposely from place to place, every line precise just like his clothes. It was clear that Tilden hadn’t learn to dress from his dad; Arthur was dressed in faded and worn maroon corduroys and a red and green plaid shirt. He wasn’t going to be on the front of the _Men’s Quarterly_. Mike secretly wondered if Arthur didn’t take his bumbling professor act too far. Mike had heard the man yesterday with Milton; he wasn’t dumb or unaware. Mike remembered Frank telling stories about the great detectives he’d worked with. Mike loved the story of Frank’s work partner Joel, who looked like a slob and stumbled through the interviews pretending to forget key details, but had the highest solve rate in the department. Trent did the same thing, not in a bumbling manner, but he would lounge in a corner blending into the woodwork, but knowing exactly what was going on and interjecting himself only if needed.

“Mike,” Trent said, “go get your two partners. Sheldon and Milton went to play an early morning tennis match; they should be back any minute.”

Tilden was awake, his torso bare and his face still damp from shaving. “Misha, you’re up early.”

“I was with Trent.”

“Do you have a guilty conscious?” Tilden asked with a teasing smile and pulled Mike into his chest, rubbing his smooth jaw against his partner’s stubble. “You need a shave.”

“No wild and free look?”

“You’re wild enough without going for the unkempt look.”  Tilden kissed Mike, running his hands down his partner’s back. “After breakfast; I don’t want to get my ear chewed off for being late.”

“Wimp,” Mike teased.

Tilden spun Mike around and playfully swatted his hip. “So, who are you calling a wimp?”

“You.” Mike darted to the other side of the bed with Tilden chasing after him.

Luke stepped out of the bathroom and grabbed Mike as he ran by. “I’ll save you.”

“Oh, yeah, my hero to the rescue.” Mike pretended to swoon in Luke’s arms.

“What should I do with my two captives? Ravish them on the bed?” Tilden trapped both his partners in his arms.

Luke shook his blond curls, spraying droplets of water over his partners. “Help! Help! I’m  so afraid,” he teased.

“Gentlemen.” Mike turned toward the voice in the doorway. Trent was leaning against the door jam, his arms crossed, trying to keep a smile off his face. “I thought I sent you to tell them that breakfast was ready, not to play sex games. Tilden, your parents are waiting in the kitchen, and you’re not leaving much up to their imagination.”

Tilden turned bright red; Mike and Luke spluttered with laughter. “Let me get dressed, and we’ll be right there.”

Tilden threw on a shirt and chased Luke into some clothes. They tried to walk into the kitchen as polite, decorous gentlemen, but Milton blew their cover.

“It sounded like you’re in a good mood today.”

“I thought you were off playing tennis,” Mike said, feeling the back of his neck turn pink.

“We were hungry,” Milton said in his most proper tone. “We returned just in time to hear you chasing each other around the bedroom.”

“Milton,” Tilden spluttered.

“It’s all right, dear,” Dorothy said with a sweet smile. “We know you’re all healthy, virile young men. Don’t let us crimp your style.”

Tilden for a moment looked like he was going to fall through the floor with embarrassment before he launched himself at Milton. “You rat. You put them up to this.”

Milton was laughing so hard that he couldn’t talk, and Tilden was pretending to wrestle with him. “Boys, is this how we behave at breakfast?” Trent said in a sharp voice with a wink at Mike and Luke.

“No, sir,” both Milton and Tilden said together as they sat down laughing.

The Johnny cakes were as Mike remembered, and he ate three helpings.

“Haven’t you eaten in a week, boy?” Milton teased.

“Don’t give him a hard time,” Trent intervened. “You should have told me that you liked them before; I don’t mind making them.” He gave Mike a lazy smile before he got up and started to clear the table. “So what are you guys doing the rest of the day, or are you planning to spend it in the bedroom?”

Tilden reached up and whopped Trent on the head with folded newspaper. “Are we ever going to live this down?”

“In time,” Trent said, grabbing the newspaper from Tilden’s hand “And I thought you were the proper professor.”

”Trent,” Tilden sputtered.

”Just a friendly reminder,” Trent said with a smile and started to gather the dirty dishes. “You wouldn’t want to set any bad examples.”

“What is this, torture me in front of my parents week?” Tilden said, his cheeks a rosy pink. 

“Your parents aren’t oblivious,” Milton said gently. “We won’t say any more.”

“Tilden,” Dorothy said, I know it’s your private life, but you don’t have to hide it. We will never be ashamed of your choices. I think it’s wonderful to see you boys having such a good time. Your friends have always been so proper when we’ve come to visit; I was beginning to wonder if you lived with a bunch of mannequins or monastics. You know, we may be the older generation, but we have heard of these kinds of relationships. ” Dorothy kissed her son’s cheek. “We just want to see you happy.”

Tilden reached out and touched his mom’s hand. “Thank you.” Mike thought he saw tears in the corner of Tilden’s eyes, but Tilden turned away before Mike could tell for sure. 

Arthur reached out and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “We love you, son.”

“Are we going to the museum today?” Dorothy asked in a bright cheerful voice.

“Yes, and then lunch at a friend’s. At Jeremiah and Joshua’s. Jeremiah is one of my colleagues.” Tilden didn’t add any details, but Mike felt his breakfast turn over in his stomach. He didn’t want to see Mr. Martin again; it was bad enough to see Dean Tyler on campus, and he was a fellow submissive. Mike preferred not to remember Mr. Martin’s early intervention after Mike’s meltdown. Milton and Tilden must have anticipated Mike’s discomfort because Tilden gave him a sympathetic smile, and Milton stood up and leaned over Mike’s back.

“Joshua likes you. He’s been asking when you were coming for a visit,” Milton whispered into Mike’s ear.

“Yeah, sure,” Mike blurted out loud enough that everybody could hear him. Mike could see Tilden’s parents’ heads snap around to look at him. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? Milton, who was still standing behind him, had tightened his hand around Mike’s shoulder. Mike expected that it was a warning, but it was also a comfort to feel that big top behind him.

“You like Jeremiah, don’t you?" Tilden asked.

Of course Mike liked Jeremiah, and Tilden knew it. They ate lunch together at least once a week—something about keeping the administration happy proving that Tilden wasn’t abusing or taking advantage of his young partners. Dean Tyler spent about five minutes questioning Mike and Luke about how things were going at home and then the rest of the time telling riotously funny stories. It was hard to believe that a college physics professor had been thrown out of high school chemistry for setting off poison gas in the lab. Like any good brat, Tyler had blamed it on the teacher, said the guy acted like they had no more intelligence than a troop of gerbils, and that he, the poor student, was just trying to learn something in class.

When Mike didn’t answer Tilden continued. “Do you think he’d stay married to someone who wasn’t a good man?”

“No,” Mike answered when Milton squeezed his shoulder.

“Joshua called that night to make sure you were OK. He didn’t need to do that.”

“Oh,” Mike muttered, looking down at the table.

“Go get showered and changed,” Tilden said gently.

Milton kept his hand on the back of Mike’s neck and guided him from the chair. Milton didn’t have to say anything. Mike knew the contact meant _We’ve got you. It will be OK._ But even with the reassurance if Milton hadn’t been hustling him so fast, Mike might have come up with a smart retort.

“Thank you,” Milton said when they reached the confines of the bedroom. “I know you’re embarrassed, but think how I’m going to feel when I have to go to the art museum with Sheldon. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get escorted out by security.”

“I take it he doesn’t like art.”

“He doesn’t like museums. He’s the only person I’ve ever known who claims to have seen the entire Hermitage in thirty minutes. Now shower, boy.” Milton landed a light swat on Mike’s rump.

 

The trip to Boston was more successful than the last time. They’d made it off the street without a major meltdown, Mike thought as he resolutely turned his mind to the Monet in front of him. He still had to survive the lunch with Dean Tyler’s partner. Tilden was staying close; he clearly was expecting trouble or at least trying to head it off if it happened. His occasional sidelong glances at Mike gave away that he wasn’t enthralled by the field of wildflowers in front of him. 

“I like this one,” Tilden said, pointing at a racetrack scene with the horses fading into the mist.”

Mike nodded.

“Are you getting the information you need for for your paper, Mishenka?” 

“Yeah,” Mike said with a flat voice.

Tilden moved to stand besides Mike, their shoulders nearly touching. “Is everything OK?” he asked in Russian. 

Mike turned to give the automatic yeah but stopped and looked into Tilden’s calm face. The Russian was a signal; Tilden used it when he was joking around and when he was concerned, a private language between him and his partners. Mike shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

Tilden gave Mike a long look and signaled with a slight nod that Mike should follow. Mike trailed Tilden through a series of corridors and up a flight of wide stairs to a narrow gallery with dark and somber pictures of fruit and sailing ships. A single bench was in the far end of the gallery facing the narrow doors. 

Tilden pulled Mike down next to him and wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulder. “I hate these pictures, but nobody ever comes in here.”

“How did you know about it?” Mike said looking at a bowl of apples fading into a brown background.

“Milton used to bring me up here and talk to me. It was before we bought the house, and we were sharing a rented place with a few other young graduate students. We both did our graduate work in Boston. Milton used to say that sometimes you can be most alone and private in public spaces. He took me to the mall food court and the airport a couple of times to talk. It was a difficult time for me. I like order. I think you know that.” Tilden gave Mike a small smile. ”Our housemates weren’t brats or submissives; I don’t know what you would call them—impossible, maybe. Milton could manage them when they left two week old dishes in the sink. He’d go into über-top mode and scare anybody into a house cleaning frenzy. I’d just go up to my room and spend hours fretting over a single paragraph of my dissertation. It would drive Milton wild. He’d drag me out to all kinds of places and try to knock some sense into me. The natural history museum actually worked best. I had a great romance with the T. rex skeleton. Six-yea-olds are supposed to be enraptured by dinosaurs, not twenty something graduate students.” Tilden smiled again and kissed the top of Mike’s forehead. “Are you still worried about Joshua?”

Mike nodded. It wasn’t just about meeting Joshua Martin. He’d made a total ass of himself that day. He’d been horrible to Tilden, and Tilden had been kind and gentle. Just like now, Tilden had given Mike a part of himself, a part that he didn’t need to share to try to get Mike to talk. Sometimes he wished Tilden would just muscle it out of him, stop with this kind, gentle approach.

“Does he frighten you?”

Mike shook his head. Joshua had been frightening that day, but when he looked back on it, he realized how kind that absolute stranger had been to him. Joshua had given him the time to feel safe. 

“If you’re not going to talk to me, go stand in front of that painting.” Tilden pointed to a painting of candlesticks on a mantle. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“You’ll look as if you’re admiring the painting.” Tilden gave Mike a small push toward the picture. “Off you go; I gave you a chance to talk.”

Mike studied the painting, noticing the minute missing flecks of gold on the frame.  With his nose only a foot from the frame, he was too close to admire the painting, and this wasn’t his favorite style any more than it was Tilden's. He must have been thinking too loud. Why had he just wanted someone to muscle him into talking? Tilden had patience. It was either talk or look at this painting all afternoon. He risked a sidelong glance at Tilden. He looked totally relaxed, his long legs crossed in front of him, his eyes half closed.

“Put your hands on top of your head.” That bastard, Mike thought, linking his fingers together over his head. “I’ll tell you if anyone is coming.”

The sliver candlesticks stood on the mantle. Thousands of brush strokes delineated them from the shadows of the mantle. Mike felt the weight of his hands on his head. He didn’t find this tranquil; he found it oppressive. The flickering of candles around an altar, a dead child, a crying mother.

“Are you ready to talk?”

“In your dreams,” Mike shot back. Why had he just said that? Was he on another collision course?”

“Kneel.”

“This is a public building.”

“Has anyone come in here yet?” Tilden moved and was standing behind Mike, shielding him from the door. “Kneel.”

The hands on Mike’s shoulders were soft but insistent. Mike sank to his knees, feeling like a fool. He didn’t get an erotic thrill out of public humiliation. It wasn’t his thing. Tilden’s hands were still on his shoulders; a single finger traced down the back of his neck.

“What’s the matter? _Chto s toboy?_ What’s with you?”

“I’m embarrassed.”

“More embarrassed than you are kneeling in a public building?”

“You bastard!”

“Watch yourself. I don’t much like swearing, and Milton hates it.” Tilden continued to rub Mike’s neck. “Why are you embarrassed?”

“I’d rather forget about it.”

“Misha, it’s over with, taken care of. Joshua’s a top. He won’t hold it over your head; he understands. You’re new in this relationship. We expect bumps.”

“I don’t understand,” Mike blurted out, his voice scratchy with unshed tears. “Why am I this way? I should be able to cope.”

“It’s not a fault or an illness, and I think you’ve done way too much coping, growing up alone. Stand up; come sit back down with me.” Tilden guided Mike back to the bench, keeping his arm around his partner’s waist.

“How’d you know that would get me to talk?”

“I guessed,” Tilden said. “Now don’t give me that wide-eyed surprised look. I’m not omniscient. I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to go as far as spanking you.”

“In public?”

“Don’t push it, and definitely don’t push Milton. He won’t take as many shenanigans as I will. He told me once the only time Sheldon talks is right before or after a spanking. That’s probably why Sheldon spends so much time with a sore rump. I’d rather not go there, but I will.” Tilden gentled the threat with a sweet kiss to Mike’s lips.

“Do you love me? I’m not just a hanger on who came with Luke?”

“Yes, you fool boy.” Tilden hugged Mike close to him and nuzzled his forehead with gentle pinches like a horse begging for sugar. “You are an equal partner, not a little brother being dragged along because the parents went to dinner or in your case to Africa.”

“Asia,” Mike snarked, trying to recover his equilibrium.

“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to hide from me again. Sit on the end of the bench. Hands on top of your head.”

“Tilden,” Mike pleaded, but he was already unwinding his arms from Tilden’s neck.

“Would you rather kneel?”

“No.” Mike scooted to the end of the bench and interlaced his fingers over his head.

“What’s a submissive?”

“A needy idiot who can’t do anything on his own.”

“Who taught you that definition?”

“Everybody knows what a submissive is.”

“That’s not how I define submissive,” Tilden said softly. “My lover, my partner, mine to cherish, to protect. Why do you think you’re a submissive?”

“You know I am.” Mike started to turn around but Tilden caught his shoulders.

“Next time you turn around I’ll put you over my lap,” Tilden growled. “Who was the first person to tell you that you were a submissive or did you just dream it up?”

“Caleb and Frank. They told me I was a brat; it’s close enough.”

“Who are they?”

“Frank’s Tommy’s father.”

“And who is Tommy? Complete answers, please.” Tilden dug his fingers into Mike’s neck. “This can get harder if you want to play twenty questions.”

Mike could hear the hint of exasperation in Tilden’s voice, and in some way Mike was enjoying teasing Tilden. He was half in trouble, and he was teasing. From the prod of the fingers against his neck, Tilden knew he was teasing also and was playing along to a certain degree. “Tommy was a school friend.”

“Yes, and?”

“Frank was a cop. I got arrested and spent a few months living with them. Caleb was always telling me I was a brat, and I think Frank knew, but was uncomfortable because I was under eighteen,” Mike said in a rush. “He tried to get my parents to let me stay with him, but they said no. I think they were jealous.”  

“Frank was the top?”

“Yeah.”

“Was Caleb a needy idiot?”

“No,” Mike snorted. “He did like to do crazy things. They got into some kind of argument about the lawn, and Caleb turned half of it into a patio overnight. He worked for a non-profit rehabbing houses.”

“What about Sheldon or Jeremiah Tyler? Sheldon’s a TV executive—makes scads more money than Milton. And Jeremiah’s head of the physics department and dean of men. Those sound like positions of power to me—more power than I have in my lowly department.”

“Dean Tyler hardly seems like a submissive.”

“He is subdued compared to Sheldon. You know he would talk to you about it if you asked? He’s older. It wasn’t as acceptable then.” Tilden kissed the back of Mike’s neck. “I want you to interview all the submissives you know and ask them what it means to be a submissive and what it means to brat. Then we'll talk again. Can you reach Caleb?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you two OK?” a deep voice asked from the doorway. Mike jerked his hands off his head and spun around to face entrance to the gallery. Milton stood in the doorframe, one hand hanging onto Sheldon’s belt.  “We’ve worn out the armor wing, but I’ll take him out and walk laps around the building if you need more time.”

Tilden looked at Mike, raising one eyebrow in a questioning gesture.

“I’m good,” Mike said with a small smile, trying to convince himself as well as the tops. Both Tilden and Milton gave Mike gentle, inquiring looks. “I’m not going to start screaming in the street if that’s your concern.”

“But you’re concerned about Joshua,” Milton filled in.

“Well, I did make an ass of myself last time we were over there.”

“Mike, Joshua Martin is over sixty. I’m sure he’s seen a boy in full meltdown before.” Milton said with small smile. “I’ve seen plenty, and I’m not nearly that old.”

Sheldon gave his partner a mock glare. “So you say. I thought you were older than God.”

“Behave, boy. I was just stating the facts,” Milton said and ruffled Sheldon’s hair. “If you're good, let’s go rescue Luke from Tilden’s parents.”

 

****

Luke sat on the bench, his sketch pad balanced on his knee. Arthur and Dorothy had taken him to the contemporary art wing. The sharp colors and the light sifting in through the narrow rectangular windows captured Luke’s imagination. He was drawing Arthur standing in a rectangle of light in front of a mobile of multi-colored plastics, a slightly bemused look on his face. Luke hadn’t noticed that Dorothy was behind him, watching over his shoulder.

“Oh, that’s lovely. May I have it when you’re done?”

Luke hunched over his work, the pencil frozen in his hand. His drawings were usually laughed at or confiscated by a teacher.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you, honey, but it’s very good. Arthur and I would love to have a picture hanging in our home from our new son-in-law. Arthur, dear, come see what Luke's drawing. It’s beautiful.”

Luke could feel his cheeks turning red, and he was glad the gallery was mostly empty; the only other occupants were a couple with two children studying the statue made from trash and a single woman entranced by a weaving. Arthur ambled over and peered over Luke’s shoulder.

“Tilden said you had a gift for foreign language; he didn’t say you were a talented artist. Our son needs to pay attention to his partners’ talents.”

“It’s not his fault,” Luke leapt to Tilden’s defense. “I keep it hidden, and I’m not very good.” Luke flipped his notebook shut and put the pencils back in his case.

“Don’t stop on account of us,” Dorothy said. “I’d love to have your talent. I can’t even do stick figures.”

Luke stood up, walked over to a sculpture made from bicycle chains and miscellaneous gears, and pretended to study it intently. 

“Do you like that?” Dorothy asked, looking at the stature with her head cocked as if trying to understand it.

“Not really. I do like the mobiles, the light and the motion, especially the plastic ones. It’s so whimsical.”

“Do you ever do any work in a solid medium?”

“I just doodle,” Luke said, keeping his eyes on the sculpture.

“You must like to keep your talents incognito,” Arthur said with a soft chuckle. “You take only one foreign language, and you don’t study art.”

Dorothy shot Arthur a murderous look, and Luke thought he heard her hiss, “Not now.”

Arthur seemed oblivious to the poor timing and continued babbling about foreign language acquisition and the Indo-European language group versus Bantu languages and the languages of the ancient North Americans. Luke wasn’t listening. He wanted to get as far away from Tilden’s babbling parent as possible. Experience had taught him that attention from an adult ended badly: his father screaming, teachers staring down at him over their glasses, the principal pacing in his office.

“So there you are,” Tilden said in a cheerful voice.

Unless Tilden was an idiot, he had to see tension in Luke’s shoulders, and Milton was with him. His sharp eyes missed nothing, and he moved close, flanking Luke on the left while Tilden moved to his right. Luke swallowed hard. Why did he always have to wear his emotions so loudly? He didn’t need one of those mood rings. Tilden was looking at his parents as if trying to determine what was wrong. Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet.

“Why didn’t you tell us that Luke was such a lovely artist?” Dorothy asked.

Luke watched Milton's and Tilden’s expressions. The relief was obvious across Tilden’s face. So that’s what’s going on. No major crisis between Luke and his parents, just Luke falling apart because someone was being nice to him.

Tilden looked embarrassed and muttered to the floor, “He’s shy about it.”

“He should be proud of it,” Dorothy said with a note of finality in her voice. She sounded like Tilden when he thought a conversation was finished.

“Can we debate Luke’s artwork in the car?” Sheldon said in a loud, demanding tone. “I for one have had more than enough of museums, and I’m starving.” Luke saw Sheldon wink at him before he was spun around by Milton, and Luke was sure something nasty whispered in his ear. 

“Sheldon is correct. We need to be off to lunch.” Milton, with his usual efficiency, herded everyone to the entrance of the museum. “We’ll bring the car around.” Milton grabbed Sheldon’s elbow and started towing his partner after him.

“Stop. It wasn’t Sheldon’s fault. He was trying to divert attention from me,” Luke shouted out and then, horrified, tried to dive behind Tilden, who grabbed his partner’s shoulders and kept Luke in front of him.

“Oh, kiddo,” Sheldon said softly.

Milton reached out, and Luke felt Milton’s large hand encircle his wrist. “Come with me, please.” The tone was soft and courteous. It wasn’t going to draw any attention to their presence on the steps as patrons hurried in and out of the museum. “I’m not mad at you,” Milton said very softly, gently tugging Luke toward him and draping his arm over the young man’s shoulders, a gesture a father might make with a son. 

The walk to the car seemed interminable; even Sheldon was quiet. Milton kept his arm over Luke’s shoulder and his other hand on Sheldon’s wrist. His pace was deliberate and steady like the pace of soldiers flanking a caisson. It hadn’t seemed to take this long to walk to the museum from the garage when they arrived; Milton must have taken a detour. They were winding through rows of meticulously pruned trees, their feet crunching on the fine limestone filings.

“It’s cold out here,” Luke muttered, his voice still petulant.

“We’ve just started unless you talk to him,” Sheldon said in a voice that Luke couldn’t tell if he was teasing or serious. “And I for one am not dressed for winter expeditions. What set you off with Tilden’s parents? They’re nice people. I think they even like me.” Sheldon gave Luke one of his bright smiles. “And I’m not easy to like.”

“Sheldon, do we need to have this discussion again?” Milton asked without heat.

“Well, it’s true. Even my parents can stand me only for a few days before the shouting starts.”

“You provoke them, my boy,” Milton said, pulling Sheldon close and kissing his fringe of bangs. “Don’t tell me you don’t.”

Luke watched the exchange, unable to pull away since he was still pinioned to Milton’s side by the strong arm around his shoulders. Sheldon seemed settled by the kiss and smiled at Milton. Luke couldn’t help but feel a small pang of jealousy. Milton and Sheldon complemented each other perfectly; they spoke volumes with only a few words. With Tilden, Luke felt like a drowning man grabbing for a lifeboat and injuring the occupants with his frantic struggle for safety. He’d been unforgivably rude to Tilden’s parents when they were doing nothing but acting interested in him. Luke blinked hard, but couldn't keep a tear from trickling down his cheek. If he wiped it, Milton would notice and then there would be no escape from a full blown interrogation. If he left it, Milton might still notice it. 

Luke didn’t get a chance to continue his internal debate because Milton noticed. “Ah, feeling guilty for how you treated Tilden’s parents. Sheldon’s right. They are nice people, and they won’t hold it against you. I’m not happy with your behavior, and I know Tilden’s not. People can be nice to you. There’s no law against it. I’m not going to punish you for what I saw with Tilden’s parents. One, that’s between you and Tilden, but I can’t imagine him doing more than talking to you, knowing his personality, and two, you need to learn that authority figures can be supportive of you.”  Milton stopped talking and continued to guide the two men down the paths, now past beds of roses trimmed harshly back for the oncoming winter. “It would be easier for you if I’d swatted you a few times and given you a blazing lecture about respecting your elders. You’ve heard that before, I’m sure.”

Luke nodded and kept his head down. He didn’t want to look at those dark brown eyes that were looking at him so kindly. He was a rude, insolent boy and he knew it.

“Oh, stop punishing yourself for fuck’s sake!” Sheldon exploded from the other side of Milton. “You’re surrounded by tops. They do a plenty good enough job of it without our help.”

“Obviously not good enough when I hear words like that come out of your mouth,” Milton said. “You’ll have lines when we get home.”

“The sentiment was correct,” Luke whispered. He’d now gotten Sheldon in trouble twice, and he was still without a blemish.

“Yes it was, but it’s not your fault that Sheldon didn’t express himself in a more polite manner,” Milton said, squeezing Luke’s shoulder. “Let’s get the car before they send a search party for us.”

Milton picked up the rest of their group at the edge of the circle driveway. Luke watched as a full blown conversation took place silently between Milton and Tilden with slight motions of an eyebrow and knowing looks. Tilden slid into the car, trapping Luke between him and the window and pulled Mike onto his other side. Tilden kept a hand on each of his partners. At least to Luke, it seemed that he was taking no chances. Arthur started a conversation with Sheldon about television as a medium for foreign language instruction. His continual babble thankfully let everybody else ride over to the apartment building in silence.

Milton pulled to the curb in front of a black and white striped awning, and a doorman hurried to assist them. Luke didn’t clearly remember the apartment building but the massive bulk of Dean Tyler hurrying toward them with Joshua Martin fitting neatly in his shadow indicated that they’d reached their destination.

“Oh, dear, it looks like someone has had a rough morning.” Dean Tyler grabbed Luke and engulfed him within his much larger frame.

 Luke concentrated on breathing and standing upright as he was swept within Dean Tyler’s bulk to the to the elevator. From the glimpses of trousers and shoes around Tyler’s billowing overcoat, he knew that the rest of them had managed to crowd into the elevator, but at least for a moment Tyler was giving him a chance to block everyone else out. Luke wondered for a second if it’d been planned that way, or if Tyler was just being his friendly exuberant self. Luke didn’t finish his thoughts before he was pushed into the apartment, jostled into removing his outerwear, and herded with a crowd of people into the living room.

Tyler and his partner knew how to give parties. Food and drink covered every flat surface, tiny triangles of sandwiches on the the coffee table, petits-fours in lights pastels on the TV, tea and coffee on the end table, and plates of hors-d’oeuvres stuffed into the bookcases wherever space was available. Luke and Mike found themselves drifting together glad to eat the myriad of foods rather that take a part in the conversation around them.

“Thank God, Arthur seems to have an interest in construction. Maybe I won’t have to talk to Martin,” Mike said, biting into a sandwich.

“I doubt if we’ll get that lucky. Tyler knew I was upset, so I’ll probably get interrogated by his partner also,” Luke said. “What was he like?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking too straight that day, but Tilden and Milton insist that he’s a nice guy.”

“Yeah, that means he’s persistent and pushy,” Luke said with a faint smile.

“Yeah, but that’s how we like them.”

“Have you boys found enough to eat?” Speak of the devil, Luke thought as Martin stood in front of them with another plate of sandwiches.

“Thank you, sir, but I’m stuffed,” Mike said politely. “The food is wonderful. Did you make it?”

“We did, and you don’t have to be so formal. You aren’t in trouble, are you?” Martin arched his eyebrows and a faint smile crept onto his face.

“No, sir,” Mike said. “I mean no.”

“You can call me Josh or Joshua. I’m OK with that, and as long as you're not at school, you can call my partner Jer or Jeremiah. He answers to both. Now if you boys are feeling overwhelmed, you can go hide in the bedroom and watch TV, but if you stay in there too long, I’ll come and find you.” Joshua Martin reached forward and squeezed Mike’s shoulder. “I’m not looking to straighten you guys out unless they ask, but you can always talk to me. Sometimes a neutral top who’s been around the block a few times is a godsend.”

Luke nodded, glad this conversation seemed to be focused on Mike. Mr. Martin—Joshua--had that same intense expression in his eyes that Milton had when he was getting ready to plow over Luke’s objections. Mike managed a coherent thank you and Joshua drifted away from their corner.

“Do you want to take him up on his TV offer?” Mike asked. “I bet he even has English language television.”

“If we disappear, how long do you think before the tops come looking for us? If you haven’t noticed, Tilden and Milton have been tracking our whereabouts every five minutes. I'm surprised Tilden hasn’t put us on a leash or at least put a GPS tracking collar on us, the way he keeps watching.”

Mike smiled. “I didn’t know you were that kinky.”

“I’m not.” Luke made a face. “But I bet Milton is. Could you see him in leather?”

“Frightening.” Mike pretended to shudder.

“What’s frightening?” asked Tilden, coming up suddenly behind them.

“Oh, Tilden, I didn’t see you,” Luke said, turning around.

“Come out of hiding.” Tilden wrapped an arm around each of his boys and herded them out toward everyone else.

The rest of the afternoon was spent getting shuffled back and forth between people. Every time Luke tried to retreat it seemed that his hosts were at his elbow, plying him with more food and drink. Tyler caught Luke by the shoulders with his big hands and herded him into the kitchen. His chocolate brown eyes were kind and sympathetic.

“Is everything OK? You looked shattered when you first showed up.” Tyler said as Luke busied himself stacking coffee cups on a tray. “No more problems with the cheating thing?”

Luke could feel his face redden, and he dropped his eyes to his shoes. “Tilden was good about it,” Luke whispered.

“Too good about it?” Tyler asked with a smile.

“God, no. I don’t know. I got in trouble.” Luke could feel himself flush.

“OK, that’s cleared up. So, what’s going on? I’m a submissive and have been known to brat,” Tyler said in a deep voice. “I can tell when a fellow submissive is on the edge. It usually ends badly if you don’t tell someone. Stop hovering with the coffee cups and sit down and talk to me.”

Luke pulled out a kitchen stool and perched on it, wrapping his legs around its legs. His fingers traced the edge of the counter in front of him.

"It can’t be that bad. You haven’t robbed a bank, hacked into the college computer system and changed all the grades, or decided you’re really straight and moving to Texas tomorrow?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Luke said and ran his hand through his tangled curls before slumping against the counter. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Tyler sat down on the stool next to Luke, sighing as he took the weight off his feet. “I’m getting too old for all this standing. Is everything happening too fast here?”

Luke tapped his fingers on the counter and shifted uneasily on the stool. He glanced around the room. For an apartment kitchen, it was surprisingly non generic. Plates in bright primary colors decorated the tops of cabinets and photographs covered nearly every blank wall surface: incredible mountain ranges, vast tracts of sand with rocky outcroppings, herds of elephants in at what at least looked like their native Africa, and elaborate Buddhist temples. “Did you take the pictures?”

“We did, but that wasn’t my question.”

“You’re not a top.”

“No I’m not,” Tyler said with a wry grin, “But I can get one if you want.”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Luke said, lifting his hands in surrender before slumping back over the counter.

“Then spill it.” Tyler massaged the back of Luke’s neck.

“There’s just all these people who know and Tilden’s parents...” Luke trailed off.

“Dorothy and Arthur seem very nice. They don’t have a problem with the relationship, do they?”

Luke shook his head. “It’s just Tilden’s...”

“Distracted, tense, hesitant to be dominant enough. Have I covered it?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to add more to his plate.”

“Luke, look at me.” Tyler put his large finger under Luke’s chin and forced the younger man’s eyes up. “Is it your decision to decide what Tilden can or can’t handle?”

“No.” Luke shook his head vigorously. Tyler might be a submissive, but he was certainly acting dominant, and Luke had no desire to anger him.

“Trust me. It ends badly. I’ve been there myself more times than I like to remember, and I think your Tilden is a lot like my Josh. I wouldn’t mess around with him. Talk to him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Luke said with a small shrug. “It’s just we’re on TV tonight and we’ve got that meeting tonight at school.”

“Most of the students are going to be jealous. You’re the big media star with two handsome partners. What’s the meeting at school?”

“Tilden promised that we’d do a brat or submissive support group. I’d forgotten about it until this morning.” Luke ran his fingers through his hair. “What am I going to tell them? I know nothing about being a brat. I’m still flailing around like an elephant trying to do ballet.”

“Stop fretting. You’re a perfect guide. Those kids are going to want to know what it’s like from the ground floor, not from an expert. I’m sure you and Mike will awe them.” Tyler gave Luke a big, wide faced grin. “Now are you going to buck up, or do I need to get a top?”

“I’m fine. It was temporary insanity only,” Luke said in his most confident voice. The thought of Joshua Martin sitting across the counter questioning him was more terrifying than any student meeting or television show.

“You’re not fine,” Tyler cuffed the back of Luke’s head lightly. “But I think you’re better. Your sense of humor’s back. And yes, I do notice,” Tyler said laughing. “I’m a card carrying submissive or as you prefer brat; I’m tuned into that kind of thing. Now we better mingle, or my Josh will be all over us.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

**Chapter 6**

 

Tilden and Milton were flanking both young brats as they made their way across campus. Luke listened to their feet land on the dark asphalt on the path, thinking of the poor six hundred  who charged off to their death. At least he thought it was six hundred from the dreadful poetry contests he remembered in middle school, which every year was either won by the ill-fated regiment or by Frost and his cold roads. The campus was quiet, still too early for the raucous frat parties, and only the most diligent student drifted into the library on a Saturday night. The only company was the naked, dormant trees and the blue police phone boxes every five hundred meters.

Luke shifted the shopping bag to his other hand. Trent and Mace had as usual loaded them down with food, their solution to all the world’s problems. Luke longed to be at home, grazing on Mace’s pickles and hard-boiled eggs while watching the television. Milton had pointedly and in great detail lectured Sheldon on appropriate behavior for watching _Meet Your Mate_ with Tilden’s parents. Sheldon had rolled his eyes at Luke and shot him smirking glances until Milton had swatted him hard. He then managed to stand like a chagrined little boy through the rest of the lecture.

A white plaque with black lettering announced their arrival at the student health center. The buildings was red brick, designed in a neutral modern style. Tilden ushered them into the hallway, and they shed their coats onto a rack already teeming with windbreakers and polar fleeces. Maybe teeming was an exaggeration, but theirs were not the first coats. Luke had hoped Saturday night would keep the college mob home waiting for the start of kegs and rum and Coke.

Tilden ran his hand down Luke’s back. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

Luke managed a nod. He hated public speaking and to talk about a lifestyle that he couldn’t even fully articulate was more than he wanted to think about. Fortunately Tilden wasn’t giving him a chance to think about it. He hooked his arm around Luke’s shoulders and more than figuratively dragged him toward the room. Even Mike must have been having second thoughts because Milton had him firmly by the hand.

Luke could hear the sound of nervous laughter and chitchat from the hallway as they entered a large meeting hall. About twenty people were milling around in clumps of three or four. A few students must have come alone, and they were busy trying to fade into the woodwork. Two older men came out of the corner where they’d been talking to a member of the health services staff.

“Hello, Dean Tyler, Mr. Martin,” Luke said surprised.

“I thought you needed some moral support.” Tyler gave Luke a big smile. “And Josh came along to keep me out of trouble.”

Martin made a snorting noise but otherwise made no sign that he'd heard the comment. He was already deep in conversation with Milton, and all three tops had started unloading the food. A tall woman in khakis and a purple turtleneck walked over. She smiled, bright white teeth behind her red lips.

“Luke, I’m Mary Steibert. I was at the meeting you had with the college president. I doubt if you remember me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Luke said with a faint smile, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Tyler bent down and whispered into Luke’s ear, “Take your hands out of of your pockets, or you’ll have my partner over here in a flash. He doesn’t do defensive and retreating behavior.”

Luke groaned, but complied. This was going from bad to worse. At least, he didn’t think he knew any of the students here, not well anyway. 

“Shit,” Mike muttered. “That’s Steve from the dorm. God, I guess he’s come to make fun of me. I’ll knock the crap out of him if he starts anything.”

“Mike, do I need to get a top?” Tyler asked.

 Luke saw Mike flush. He must have forgotten that Dean Tyler was standing with them. Tyler laid a hand on Mike’s shoulder, but Mike shook it off. “I’ll be OK. It’s just he takes great joy in needling me. I’m sure he’s come to poke fun at me, the good little student shacked up with the professor.”

“Have you ever thought that he might be a young and confused submissive? Maybe he’s jealous?” 

Tyler was interrupted by a sharp whistle from Milton. He looked every inch the college professor and the top; his dark eyes flashed behind his glasses. The crowd settled down with a few nervous murmurs. Some sat perched in metal folding chairs while others like Luke and Mike tried to lean casually against the wall as if these meeting were no more unusual than a dorm meeting reminding the students of the dangers of excess drink. Milton waited until everyone was quiet, his expression both severe and serene at the same time.

“Thank you,” Milton said finally, his hands clasped behind him in full lecture mode. “I think many of you know me since I teach a survey history course, but for those who don’t I’m Milton Brown, professor of history and government and also a dominant.” Milton paused while a ripple of noise passed through the crowd. “My partner, submissive, and often brat is at home tonight, but I came in support of my good friend Tilden Blake and his two partners, Mike and Luke, fellow members of the student body.” Milton looked around the room, until he spotted the two young men. “Stop hiding. You’re the guests of honor.”

 

Luke felt his face grow hot. If Dean Tyler hadn’t put his hand on his shoulder, he thought he probably would have fled to the bathroom. Luke’s only comfort was that Mike didn’t look any happier. Mike made a sour face, but he allowed Tyler to push him towards the front of the room. Tilden grabbed both of them as they came forward, kissing each of his partners firmly on his forehead.

“Hang in there,” Tilden whispered. “They’re just as scared as you are, and if it makes you feel any better I’d rather be defending my dissertation again than standing here.”

Milton looked at Tyler with a raised eyebrow as if questioning if Tyler wanted to be introduced. Tyler gave Milton a nod and a small shrug, a tiny smile playing on the corners of his lips.   His expression was almost shy and teasing at the same time, and Luke was struck for the first time that Tyler was truly a brat. Yes, he’d heard the stories, but Tyler was older and somehow dignified, authoritative, not something that Luke considered brat like qualities.

“This is Dean Tyler, head of men at Banner college. He has a few words he’d like to say to you,” Milton said.

Luke heard a collective sigh; the audience probably thought he was going to review the rules of date rape or consensual sex.

Tyler gave everybody a wide smile. “Well, I’m going to start with the punchline of this story. I’m a submissive, or if you prefer the nomenclature of the television show, I am also a brat.” Luke heard more than a couple of students gasp. “Yes, that’s right; I’m a brat, and I brought my partner to confirm it.” Tyler smiled and waved his partner forward. Even in his sixties Joshua Martin was a handsome man, and his silver hair added to his aura as a top.

“Brat,” Martin teased, kissing his partner on the cheek. 

“I was afraid you’d get the wrong impression that all brats are young and wild,” Tyler continued, facing the small crowd.

“No, you’re just old and wild,” Martin interrupted.

“This is my speech,” Tyler said, pretending to pout.

“Fine, fine,” Martin said, throwing up his hands and backing away.

Luke smiled, watching the two men interact. He hoped the three of them would learn to play like that. Right now he and Mike could hardly go a day without one of them getting spanked.

“As I was saying,” Tyler continued, “I came so you could see the mechanics of an established relationship. I will always be a submissive; it’s not something you grow out of. But unlike my young friends, I’m more sensitive to the nuances of my partner, and it’s rare for me to step beyond the established boundaries. I don’t often openly brat, at least not in my advanced age. However, I am a lifestyle submissive, not in the dramatic way with which some of you may be familiar from clubs or worse overdone fiction. I’m not chained to the bed or beaten daily with a rod. For me, being a submissive is not about the extremes of the role, but submitting to my partner. I desire boundaries, and as Josh’s partner, I must respect his boundaries. Not that I sometimes don’t ignore or evade his restrictions.” Tyler gave Luke a self-effacing grin. “It’s just rarer than it used to be. I’m going to turn this back over to Milton and Tilden. I think they have something planned, and I’m just the party crasher.”

“We all thought you were tired of lectures, and it is Saturday so we thought we’d circulate around and let people ask questions,” Tilden said, his eyes dancing with good humor. “If any of you self-identify as a top, professor Brown is the one to talk to."

 

****

 

Mike finished answering a shy fellow freshman’s questions. Mike almost felt sorry for the kid; he was one of those classically timid, socially inept boys who are teased unmercifully in high school. Even in college, Mike had to resist being intentionally cruel, but with three tops circling around the easy put downs seemed a high risk for a brief moment of cruel enjoyment, and this Doug guy had made some insightful comments once Mike had gotten past the out of fashion glasses and the pressed shirts. Maybe he'd learned fashion sense from the Mormon missionaries.

Doug darted a nervous glance at a clump of guys that were approaching them. “Does anyone have an apple for the teacher’s pet? Oh look, he’s even being nice to Dougie. He must be afraid of getting his little ass paddled.”

“Shut up.” Mike recognized Steve from his dorm but didn’t know the other two students by name.

“Oh, Mikey, how far you have fallen,” Steve leered at him. “Such a good boy now, teetotaling, studying, and hanging out with losers.”

“You’ve made it very clear what you think of my lifestyle,” Mike said through clenched teeth. “Why the fuck did you come? Are you sure you’re not jealous?”

“Jealous? Hardly!” Steve gave a derisive laugh. "It’s like going to the zoo—study the specimens up close.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mike made a lunge at Steve.

Mike only moved one step before a silver-haired figure appeared between the two boys. Mike froze; he had experience with Martin in his most toppish moments, and it wasn’t pretty. Of course Martin always seemed to exude the aura of dominance.

“Do I need to get Tilden?” Martin’s voice was quiet, but as sharp as knife. He’d grabbed Steve’s wrist and was keeping the boy anchored in place.  Steve was staring at him with frank, wide-eyed terror.

Mike gulped audibly. “No, sir. It was a momentary lapse.”

“Good. Go find Milton or Tilden and stay out of trouble.”

Mike nodded, relieved and surprised to get off that easily. Mike looked over at Steve with a sudden wave of sympathy. Mike knew what it was like to be trapped under Martin’s scrutiny.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Martin said softly. “But I’m going to have a little chat with our young troublemaker. I’m not constrained by the rules of the college.” 

Mike saw Steve visibly wilt under the threat, his eyes pleading. Surprising himself, Mike murmured, “Keep your chin up. He won’t kill you. I know.” 

Martin wrapped his arm around the now stunned Steve and pushed him out of the room. Mike shook his head. That poor kid had no idea what he’d just awakened. Mike went and found Tilden, but his mind was still on Steve. Mike remembered that torturous afternoon, he’d spent in Martin and Tyler’s apartment. Martin had been kind in his own frightening way, but at least Mike had had some idea what to expect. He’d been a couple of rounds with Milton and Tilden. Poor Steve was flying blind.

“What’s the matter?” Tilden asked, laying his hand on Mike’s back.

“Do you remember Steve from Russian class?”

“Short kid with messy hair, who sat in the back with you guys when you were being hooligans. Why?” 

“Mr. Martin grabbed him and took him out in the hall.”

Tilden rolled his eyes heavenward. “What was he doing?”

“We kind of had an altercation

“Kind of?” Tilden said with a raised eyebrow.

“Mr. Martin broke it up before it got further than words. Steve was harassing me about being your brat.” Mike scuffed his shoe against the floor; he felt like a kid being scolded for fighting on the playground.

“Did it ever occur to you that Steve is envious?” Tilden asked, ruffling Mike’s hair.

“He’s a brat?”

“Oh, yeah, and spinning,” Tilden said with a small smile. Why don’t we go check on him? Make sure that poor Steve is surviving his first encounter with a top.

The hallway was empty as they headed down the corridor. Tilden stopped at the third door where a faint light was shining. He knocked and Martin came to the door. Steve was standing behind him, shaking slightly, his face tear streaked.

“Steve, are you OK? Mike was concerned about you,” Tilden asked.

Steve bit his lip and nodded, his eyes wide and anxious. Martin looped his arm around the student’s shoulders, and Steve leaned against him like he was the last resting place for kilometers. 

“Steve, is there something you want to say to Mike?” Martin asked in his implacable calm voice.

“I’m sorry for picking a fight with you.”

“It wasn’t like I was a perfect gentleman,” Mike said with a rueful smile. “And I have people watching my back.” Mike, to his own surprise, opened his arms, and Steve fell into the hug, clutching onto Mike’s back. “Welcome to my world, where the tops turn you upside down and shake you.”

“God, how do you do it?”

“It’s got its good moments too.” Mike unwound himself from Steve’s arms; he felt inadequate for the roll of comforting senior boy. “You should talk to one of the guys who really knows what’s going on.”

“I’ve got you right now,” Martin said, scooping Steve against his body. “Everything will look better after a good night’s sleep.” Martin turned toward Tilden and mouthed, “You owe me one. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Mike watched Martin walk down the hall, his arm tight around the shattered freshman, one ear pressed to his phone as he most likely called his partner who appeared seconds later carrying their coats. Steve was tucked into his coat like a compliant rag doll, shielded between the two men.

“What will happen to him?”

Tilden kissed the top of Mike’s head. “ _Ti maladets._ I’m proud of you worrying about your classmate. He’ll spend the night with Joshua and Jeremiah, and they’ll sort it out in the morning. Steve isn’t the first lost young man who’s found shelter in their house.”

“That day you pulled me off the floor, swimming in drink, you would’ve sent me to Mr. Martin’s if I hadn’t chosen to stay with you?”

“Probably,” Tilden said, wrapping his arms around his partner. “I’m glad you stayed with us.”

Mike smiled and tucked his head tighter into Tilden’s shoulder. “Me too,” Mike said in a voice hardly above a whisper. “I love you.”

Tilden kissed him, his top’s lips enveloping his own, demanding, loving, and possessing. “Let’s go home, Mishenka.”

The walk home would have been even colder than the earlier walk across campus if Tilden and Milton hadn’t been in a crazy mood. They linked arms, putting the two boys in the middle and skipped down the path singing Russian folk tunes, dragging Tilden’s two shell-shocked partners with them. They passed one student, industriously lugging a massive backpack who stepped off the path as if he’d just encountered a drunken gang Nothing seemed to shake the tops’ mood, and Tilden belted out another line of Kalinka.

The lights of the house twinkled through the windows, and Mike could see the flicker of the television through the parted curtains as they mounted the porch steps. Tilden was still fishing in his pocket for the key when the door swung open. Sheldon stood framed in the warm house lights, flanked by Tilden’s parents. Mike blinked as a series of flashes went off in his face.

“You can’t be stars without paparazzi,” Sheldon teased, snapping a few more pictures before starting an imaginary commentary. “The newest sensations of American television return to their humble abode for the night. Even with their new stardom, the famous threesome refuses to buy a villa on the Black Sea or _v chernom more_ as Tilden would say.

“I tutored you in Russian for over a year, and you still think I want an underwater house,” Tilden said, rolling his eyes and making a futile grab for Sheldon, who dove back into the house and behind the relative safety of Tilden’s parents. “ _Na chernom more_ for on the seashore or at the Black Sea coast. I’m not a mermaid.”

“Do you ever give up?” Sheldon laughed. “I’m not a Russian scholar.”

“Well, that much is obvious,” Tilden deadpanned.

Everybody trailed down the hall and back into the kitchen in a clump. The kitchen was always the source of activity for this family. My family, Mike almost dared to think. Sheldon was still blathering on about the first episode, even though he was trapped under Milton’s strong arms. Dorothy grabbed Tilden and pulled him down to kiss his cheek.

“You were lovely, and you have the most handsome young partners.”

“Thanks, Mom. You two weren’t mortified?” Tilden asked almost shyly.

“Why would we be mortified watching our son on television? From the first time you put your arm around Luke’s shoulders, it was clear that you two loved each other.”

“Mom!” Tilden said, blushing.

“And, Mike,” Dorothy continued, “you look so much happier now than you looked when that episode was filmed.”

Mike grinned and sought shelter under Tilden’s arm, suddenly embarrassed by the turn of events. “I am,” he whispered, keeping his face buried in Tilden’s shoulder.

Mace and Trent started banging around in the kitchen. Mike wasn’t even remotely hungry, but the request for tea or coffee was at least a distraction from this conversation  that was becoming too personal. Trent’s little games with food were, as always, to slip over the rough spots. Mike was thankful that Trent preferred to ease around potential trouble spots, rather than boldly charge right through. If Milton hadn’t been hanging on to a bounding Sheldon, the evening’s conversation would have been painfully direct. Instead they sipped tea and made small talk about the various tops and brats on the show—guessed their shoe sizes, made fun of their clothes and hair, and imagined their talents as cooks. 

Serious conversations about that frightening thing called love were averted again.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

**Chapter 7**

 

Mike padded across the kitchen in his bare feet, his short brown hair disheveled from sleep. He was dressed only in pajama bottoms and one of Tilden’s Russian club T-shirts. Trent and Mace were as usual cooking, and the kitchen smelled of oranges and cranberries. Mace was peering into the oven, his worn jeans resting low on his hips accentuating his narrow bowlegged frame. Trent was behind him, scrutinizing whatever was making that wonderful aroma from the oven.

“Morning,” Mike said, reaching in the refrigerator for a glass of juice.

“Morning,” Trent replied, giving Mike’s outfit a long look. “If you’re going to stay out here, get a robe and some slippers, just looking at you is making me cold.”

“I’m fine.” Mike pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, tucking his feet underneath the chair.

“Go on; get some clothes on. I’m not going to have Tilden breathing down my neck because I let you catch cold.”

Mike looked up at Trent, who had stepped closer and was starting to loom over him like a top who wanted his way. It was Milton who could truly do the looming with his broad frame and dark piercing eyes. Trent wasn’t scary in faded jeans, a flannel shirt with its sleeves rolled up and yesterday’s stubble still on his chin. 

“You get a cold from germs, not bare feet. I’m not cold,” Mike said.

“Humor me, kiddo, because you’re making me cold.”

“I’m fine.” Mike took a sip of orange juice.

“Do you want to fight me over this, make me get all toppy?” Trent asked, definitely now in a top’s looming posture, standing with one hand on the table, staring hard at Mike. Trent’s tone had softened even as his stare had hardened. Mace must have recognized something in the shift because he’d suddenly become busy in the pantry.

“I’m not cold,” Mike repeated. He could hear the petulance in his own voice, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Trent reached down and picked up the glass of juice, moving it to the counter behind him. “Look, kiddo, are you sure you want to go here? You can still get up, go to your bedroom, put a robe on, and I’ll pretend this conversation never took place.” Trent’s voice dropped even softer to a level where Mike had to strain to hear it. “I know you goaded Milton into spanking you. I’d rather not play surrogate top to someone else’s boy, but if you need to blow off steam and don’t want to do it with Tilden because his folks are here, I can oblige.”

“I wouldn’t push it, cowboy,” Mace said as he reappeared from the pantry loaded down with nuts and dried fruits. “I would’ve already been over his knee.”

“So what do you say?” Trent said, reaching over and ruffling Mike’s short hair. “Do we end this here, or do I have to do something more drastic?”

“All right. I’ll put on some more clothes,” Mike said with less than good grace. He’d been playing a game of chicken, and he’d blinked first. 

“Thank you.” Trent bent over and kissed Mike on the forehead.

Mike stomped out of the kitchen, not sure whether he was pleased that Trent hadn’t swatted him or if he would have preferred a quick trip over Trent’s knee. What was he playing at? He didn’t like to get spanked, and Trent was the easiest going of the bunch, or at least the top who didn’t interfere with his housemates. Mike wasn’t sure how easygoing Trent was with Mace since Mace always seemed to mind his manners. Maybe he held Mace under a spell or a secret reign of terror.

In the bedroom, Tilden and Luke were still entwined in each other, Luke’s head resting on Tilden’s chest, Luke’s arm around Tilden as if he were a teddy bear. Tilden had shifted closer to Luke after Mike had left the bed, and he didn’t have to share his affections between two partners. They’d kicked the top quilt onto the floor. Mike picked it up and spread it over his two partners, smiling to himself at his own domesticity. Tilden stirred but didn’t awake. Mike opened the top drawer, pulled on one of Tilden’s sweatshirts, and shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers without tying the laces. It wasn’t Trent’s prescribed robe and slippers, but he could no longer fuss that Mike was cold.

As Mike returned to the kitchen, Trent was shutting the kitchen door. Joshua Martin, Jeremiah Tyler, and Steve Meyer stood in the kitchen. Mr. Martin was pushing Steve in front of him, one arm wrapped around the young man’s shoulders. “Hi, Mr. Martin, Dean Tyler, Steve.”

“If we’re going to barge in your house and beg breakfast for a stray at eight o’clock on Sunday morning, I think you can start calling us by our first names,” Martin said before turning toward Trent and Mace. “It’s good to see you two again. I need to stop by your bookshop more often, but I’ve been spending too much time in Boston. Jeremiah says you’ve not been getting into trouble, or else all the tops here are better at keeping secrets from me than they used to be.” Martin gave Mace a hard look, before he broke into a small smile.

“I’m no trouble at all, just a sweet cowboy messing with musty books and burnt pies.” Mace grinned.

“Boy,” Joshua shot back. “I remember you in your younger days.”

“Don’t remind me,” Mace said with a rueful grin.

Mike watched the two men. From the easy banter, it was clear they were more than casual acquaintances. Steve looked at Mike, perplexed, trying to decipher the relationship between all these men. Mike shrugged and mouthed, “I don’t know.”

“Trent, can you guys keep an eye on Steve for a while this morning? My brother and his wife are in Boston for a convention. I promised to meet them for breakfast,” Joshua said.

“They still have trouble with Josh and my relationship. We have to keep the dominant and submissive part under deep cover. If we showed up with Steve in tow, well, I don’t want to think of an explanation for that,” Jeremiah said with his usual wide grin.

“Plus Jer, Wayne, and Liza will spend the entire time talking about physics. I think Steve has as much interest in quarks as I do, but Wayne’s my brother. I have to pretend I’m interested.”

“I’m more than capable of having breakfast on my own in the cafeteria,” Steve protested.

Mike thought Steve would have fled if Martin hadn’t had a firm grim on his arm.

“We had this discussion already this morning. Do I need to repeat it?” Joshua said in the same tone that had frozen Mike when he’d found himself trapped in that glacial glare. Steve looked uncomfortable as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to flee the state or collapse into Joshua’s arms. Trent made the decision for Steve, grabbing the young man’s wrist and pulling him so he was tucked under his arm.

“No matter what nasty rumors Luke and Mike are spreading around campus, we don’t bite, kiddo. As you’re the guest here, do you want something special for breakfast?”

Steve looked at Trent before dropping his head and letting his long bangs hide his eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

Trent made a noise with his tongue, something between a clucking sound used with a horse and a sharp tsk.

“Don’t even think about skipping meals,” Mace said in his easy drawl, which Mike was beginning to recognize became more pronounced when Mace was trying to soothe someone. He wondered if it was the same voice he’d used with the bronco before the gate swung open. Mace didn’t talk much about his rodeo days, but he always wore that big silver belt buckle, and there were a few pictures hanging in their apartment.

“We’ve got him,” Trent reassured Joshua. “We might not have the decades of experience you have with strays, but I think we can manage. Go enjoy your brother and his quarks and particle colliders.”

“Thank you,” Joshua said dryly before bending over and kissing Steve firmly on the forehead, which made Steve flush the color of a red tomato. “Be good, kid. Talk to the other guys here. They can answer a lot of your questions. It’s not as frightening as you imagine.” Joshua smiled, and Mike was struck by how soft and warm his expression was. He’d thought of Joshua as a strict, somewhat frightening older uncle, but here he looked more like a kindly grandfather.

Jeremiah, who had snuck a piece of the freshly baked cranberry bread, stepped forward from where he’d been lounging against the counter to kiss Steve on the cheek, making Steve blush even more and leaving crumbs on the young man’s face. “I expect a good report. You don’t want to embarrass the Martin-Tyler household. It’s not like I’ve ever done anything foolish.”

 “Come,” Joshua said, pulling Jeremiah from the kitchen. “They have a lot of mouths to feed, and you’re eating their breakfast.”

“He’s no fun.” Jeremiah gave Mike a wink as he grabbed a second slice of the sweet bread on the way out. Steve stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, still blushing and staring at the floor.

“Hey, kiddo,” Trent said, pulling Steve down on his lap. “Deep, slow breaths. We’ve got you.”

Mike hadn’t realized he was staring until Mace bumped him with an elbow. “Go wake Tilden and get Milton; he’s usually in his study on Sunday morning so he can let Sheldon sleep. Trent’s going to need some reinforcements. Wayward boys aren’t his specialty, and Steve looks on edge. I’ll stay here and make reassuring noises at the stove. Oh, and tie your shoes before you break your neck.”

“Sorry,” Mike said, giving Mace an embarrassed grin before reaching down and tying his laces. Mike had been bratting with Trent this morning, but now that seemed unimportant. Steve hadn’t been a close friend, more of a companionable dorm mate to party with and sometimes a pain in the ass, but he was hurting. Trent had buried Steve’s face in his shirt, and he was whispering in Steve’s ear. Mike remembered his first morning in this house after that disastrous frat party, Milton’s hand on Mike’s shoulder and the quiet looks of support from everyone else. Tilden had even come after Mike before he was his top. Mike’s parents had always acted as if he were a burden and passed him hurriedly to the next person like an unwanted token in a game. Here these men went out of their way to care, to help, to be open, Mike realized as he ran up the stairs to get Milton. They were teaching him the same philosophy.

Mike tapped on Milton’s study door before pushing it open a crack. “Trent needs you downstairs.” 

Milton didn’t say anything; he pushed his papers aside and headed toward the door before Mike had finished the sentence. He squeezed Mike’s shoulder as he passed, his eyebrows raised. 

“It’s Steve.”

“It’ll be OK. We’ve done this before. Trust us.” A final pat on the shoulder, and Milton was already halfway down the stairs.

He did trust Milton, Mike thought, surprised. This whole family with their strange, intermeshed life had wormed its way into his subconscious. But he was a part of the immediate family; he belonged to Tilden. What would it feel like to be an unattached submissive? He shivered, thinking of sitting in the kitchen, all three tops studying him as Tilden had laid out his choices. 

Tilden was awake but still in bed when Mike walked back into the bedroom. “Trent wants you in the kitchen.”

“You looked flushed. Is everything OK?” Like Milton, Tilden had thrown off the bed covers and stood up immediately when Mike had announced that Trent wanted Tilden. He hadn’t questioned or argued.

“It’s Steve. I was just thinking...”

“That he could be you,” Tilden said, finishing Mike’s sentence. “You’re mine, and don’t you forget it.” Tilden kissed Mike hard, his tongue probing against Mike’s teeth, his hand tight around Mike’s neck. The kiss demanded Mike’s attention and Mike’s surrender. Tilden pulled back and landed a light swat on Mike’s hip. “I didn’t think you liked wearing my clothes.”

“I was giving Trent a hard time.”

“Did he take care of it?”

Mike nodded, feeling his cheeks redden. He didn’t have Luke’s fair coloring, but Tilden could make him blush.

Tilden threw on a sweatshirt and pulled a pair of jeans over his pajamas before walking into the kitchen, his hand resting on Mike’s back. Trent still had Steve on his lap, but Steve was now facing the table and picking at a piece of cranberry bread. Milton was sitting at the table, sipping coffee and looking calm.

“Styopa,” Tilden said, “ _dobroe utr_ o.”

“I’m not taking Russian anymore.”

“You don’t even remember the stuff from the first day. _Dobroe utro_ ,” Tilden repeated.

“Just tell him good morning,” Mike said. “He’s obstinate about Russian.”

“ _Dobroe utro_ ,” Steve mumbled, mangling the stress on the second word.

Tilden winced at the pronunciation, but smiled. 

“Mace, will you set some cold breakfast foods out in the dining room, and we’ll finish the rest. I think three tops should be able to manage a few eggs and bacon.” Milton smiled, but it was obvious that he was clearing the room of the boys.

“Come on, guys. The tops want some private time. Let’s go in the living room before the rest of the crowd wakes up.” Mace reached down and caught Steve’s hand, pulling him up. “I’m not scary. Wait till you meet Sheldon.”

“Who’s Sheldon?” Steve asked, following reluctantly behind only because Mace had a firm grip on Steve’s wrist.

“Milton’s brat,” Mike said.

“And he’s a king size brat. He can get in more trouble than all the rest of us put together. Oh, and by the way I’m Mace, Trent’s partner. I don’t think we were formally introduced.”

“I’m bad with names” Steve’s said, allowing Mace to push him down on the living room couch.

“You already know Luke, Mike and Tilden—Professor Blake. That leaves only Milton, Sheldon, Trent, and me. Sheldon has flaming red hair and will answer to hey boy or hey brat, so that only leaves three of us.”

Steve nodded, still looking shell-shocked. “What happens to me now?”

“You hang with us and have some breakfast,” Mike said.

“I’ll grab us some of the cranberry bread and some juice,” Mace said, already moving toward the door. “Joshua and Milton have done this before, and I have a pretty good idea what’s up their sleeve.”

“With students?” 

Mike heard the quiver in Steve’s voice. Mike hadn’t been great friends with Steve, but he was a fellow submissive, and it was clear the kid was scared. “Hang in there. They can be creative. Milton sicced Joshua on me when I came unglued. He scared me. I still have trouble thinking of him as anything but Mr. Martin. He was very in control.” Mike saw the frightened look on Steve’s face. “Not in a bad way, more reassuring.”

“Did he..?”

“Do you mean did he spank me? No, but I don’t think he’d hesitate to if I needed it and Tilden or Milton wasn’t around.”

“What happened?”

Mike squirmed. This wasn’t a topic he liked to discuss; in fact he’d prefer to pretend it had never happened, but it was distracting Steve. “You can’t tell anyone that’s not like us.”

“I won’t.” Steve gave Mike a shy grin and then looked down at his lap. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a shit to you since you moved in with Tilden.”

“You’ve gone along with the crowd. I’ve done it before.” Mike shrugged. “It’s easy to do, but you’re one of us now.” 

Steve looked up sharply, a sparkle in his blue eyes and a flash of a smile that quickly vanished. “You really mean that?”

“He does,” Mace said from the doorway. “And all the tops here take a responsibility for all of us, not just their own, seriously. I know Josh does.”

Mike looked at Mace. “You too?”

“Yep, I had a bit of an encounter with Milton and Mr. Martin before I settled things with Trent. And it was definitely Mr. Martin then,” Mace said with a laugh. “He put me over his desk and used a paddle on me.”

“Shit, and I spent the night in his house. I don’t want to be spanked.” Steve got up from the sofa and started to pace back in forth in front of the fireplace.

“Steady, cowboy. You’re a boy; you’re going to get spanked.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this. It’s not fair. Why can’t I be normal?” Steve’s voice rose to a high whine.

“Easy, cowboy. Unless you want a top in here.” Mace had moved to intercept Steve’s pacing. “I consider being Trent’s boy normal. It’s not like I have three eyes or something. Hell, most of the submissives I know are a lot more normal than the guys and gals I rodeoed with. Those folks were crazy.”

“Did you ride bulls?” Steve asked.

Mike was surprised when Mace gave and easy smile and thickened his western drawl. When Mike and Luke had asked Mace about his past they’d been brushed off in a friendly way. “I’m not crazy. I only rode bucking horses.  Sit down, and I’ll tell you about it.”

 

****

Mace grabbed the coffee off the counter along with two of today’s specials and headed toward the table with that big guy who always had his head in a book. Mace thought he was a professor, even though he looked more like a lumberjack. He’d been in a couple of times, but this was the first time Mace had seen him with a companion. Today a tall silver-haired man sat next to him and across from him a third chair sat empty as if they expected someone else. Mace hobbled toward them; his ankle was killing him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another couple waving a coffee cup at him. An older woman still wearing her pink raincoat called out to him.

“Young man, I ordered the chicken salad. This is ham salad.”

“Give me a minute,” Mace growled. “My hands are kind of full.” He tossed the food on the table, spilling bean soup down the big man’s shirt front and spattering his tie. “Damn. Could it get any worse today!” Mace said in exasperation before he could stop himself. He threw the tray on the table and turned to flee.

The silver-haired guy with a practiced ease caught Mace’s wrist and pulled him down into the empty chair next to him. “It’s just a little soup. I don’t think it’s worth losing your job over. And if you run out of here, I bet your boss will fire you.”

“He’s not my boss,” Mace blurted out before he realized he’d said too much. He wasn’t sure what Trent was. They’d been on and off lovers for three years. Mace would show up at a rodeo, and Trent would be there writing an article for _The_ _Shooter_ or _Western Horseman,_ or if he wasn’t writing he’d supplement his income as a short order cook. Somehow those jobs were always in towns with big rodeos. In down times, they’d gone hunting and fishing together, but it had never gone further than a casual relationship until Mace had been hurt. 

Mace could remember that day like it was yesterday. He’d drawn Devil’s Mark, a big roan gelding with a roman nose and small piggy eyes. He was everyone’s least favorite draw. He’d flipped over on another cowboy a few months ago, and he had a nasty habit of biting the pickup riders’ horses. Mace settled on the saddle and wrapped the rope around his hand. He was doing both bareback and saddle bronc riding today as his kitty was running dry. He’d had to break into his emergency money, stashed in a coffee can, to buy groceries yesterday. The gate swung  open, and the horse plunged out. Mace didn’t remember the rest of the ride until he found himself in the dirt, his foot turned in a way that nature had never designed.

It was only days later in the hospital that Mace realized the seriousness of his injuries when a doctor, a social worker, and a nurse all squeezed into the tiny room and pulled the curtain between patients. Trent was there also. Trent had been with him since the accident. Mace vaguely remembered Trent holding his hand and arguing with a team of people in surgical caps and masks while Mace lay on a gurney in a haze from pain medications. Mace still didn’t know what the argument had been about, but he had the impression that Trent had won.

“Son,” the doctor began. 

Mace braced himself. He hated being called son, especially in a soft patronizing way, but he’d heard it enough times from the misguided older generation trying to soften a blow to know that he was in a pile of shit.

“Son,” the doctor repeated, taking off his glasses and wiping an imaginary spot from them with the front of his scrubs. “Your ankle was a first class mess. Nothing was holding it together but a few pieces of skin. We’ve got it together—for now—but you won’t ride again, and you’ll walk with a cane. We considered amputation, and I still think it might have been a better choice, but your friend here was adamant.” The doctor pointed at Trent.

Mace stared at the doctor. Never ride again, always walk with a limp. What would he do? Riding was all he knew. 

Trent ran his fingers through Mace’s short, straight hair, teasing them through a small knot. “You’ll walk again, partner.”

Mace turned his head toward Trent. Had Trent meant partner as more than a cowboy term of endearment? They’d know each other for a long time, but it had never been more than fun. 

“Riding’s all I know. How will I make a living? It’s not like I have insurance.”

“It’s all right, son,” the doctor said. The social worker will talk to you about your options, help you with the forms. I have other patients to see.” The doctor sidled from the room as if glad to exit the scene of the tragedy now that he’d dropped the bad news.

Someone pulled a notebook from a bedside table and started blathering about social security disability payments, home health care, and other things that Mace was only half-hearing. In his mind he kept hearing, “You’ll never ride again.”

Trent’s voice broke Mace’s stupor. “Please, I don’t think he’s in any condition to make a decision today.”

“His medical condition no longer necessitates hospitalization. The choices won’t get easier,” the social worker said.

“I’ve already made arrangements,” Trent said, his voice firm and his gray eyes locking with the hospital staffs’. “He’s going back east with me. I inherited a small bookshop and restaurant outside of Boston that needs my attention. I’m sure we can find excellent medical care in Boston.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize he had a partner. It’s not on the forms.” The social worker flipped through the papers on the clipboard in her hand.”

“We never formalized it.”

Mace started to protest that they’d never even talked about it, but Trent gave him a long, steady look and squeezed his shoulder hard.

 

 

Mace had gone with Trent. It seemed like a better option than a lonely rehabilitation ward and short tempered nurses, but now as he looked at the man’s sodden shirt and bean soup running down the floor he wasn’t so sure. They were living in two tiny rooms above the store, constantly crashing into each other and being driven insane by minor things that had seemed inconsequential in their on again off again relationship. Trent read mysteries, horrible silly English mysteries with cats; Mace preferred the TV or movies. Mace missed the early rodeo dawns, the quiet whinny of the horses as the first cowboys stirred. He missed the incredible blue sky of the West. Winters in Massachusetts were full of gunmetal gray skies and freezing precipitation. He hated the  restaurant and bookshop, snooty professors looking down their nose at him when he hobbled over to the bookcase to get a book by an author whom he’d never heard of but which the professors, by their clear disdain, seemed to think was common knowledge. The students were no better. They’d leave pennies for tips as if emptying their piggy bank on the table, and they left the table and surrounding floor strewn with cups, napkins, and discarded papers. Financially Mace felt like a leech. He was a terrible server, as the spilled soup proved, and he couldn’t cook, even though Trent begged him to do the baking. Mace’s grandmother’s pies were famous throughout her hometown. Her cherry pie always won the blue ribbon at the state fair, and her apple pie was the hit of every school and church bake sale. Mace’s crusts never lived up to the perfect flakiness of his grandmother’s pies.

“Well, I guess it’s no use complaining to him about the terrible service, is it?” The silver-haired guy smiled at Mace. 

“The dry cleaners can perform wonders. I’m sure my shirt will recover from the bean soup bath. I’m not so sure about the tie,” the big guy said. “I’m Milton Brown, and over there still dry is Joshua Martin.”

“I’m sorry about the soup,” Mace mumbled. He could feel his cheeks growing red.

“Never mind about the soup. I came for the pie. Milton here has been raving about the pie.”

“We have apple, blueberry, and banana cream today.”

Mr. Martin must have noticed Mace’s shy mumble and the rising pink on his cheeks. “So, you make the pie?”

Mace nodded.

“Bring a piece of each.”

“But there are only two of you.”

“You’re the third,” the professor said.

“I’m supposed to be working.”

“Or your boss, who is not you boss, is going to be mad?” Mr. Martin asked with a raised eyebrow. “It looks like he’s got it under control, and the customers are probably happier with the food on their plates, not their laps. Now hop to it, boy. Three pieces of pie, and get rid of this debris.”

The last was said with a distinct ring of an order. It wasn’t shouted, and the two men didn’t look angry, but Mace felt that arguing wasn’t an option. He cleared the plates and wiped the table down. 

Trent grabbed Mace’s arm as he was cutting the last piece of pie. “Is everything OK at that table?”

“You mean besides spilling soup all over that professor guy.”

“Did you spill it or throw it at him?”

“Spilled it. What do you think I am? A toddler?”

“No, I think you’re someone who lost his livelihood and something you loved very much, and who is now angry at the world. I love you, Mace, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take. You’re angry at me all the time. Maybe this isn’t going to work.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a New England shopkeeper and restauranteur? I hate this.” Mace slapped the pie on the plate. “I’m a cowboy in a town where the most fucking exciting thing to do is looking at the foliage.”

“Keep your voice down,” Trent hissed.

Mace turned to see the closest patrons’ eyes on him, and the big professor from the table moving toward him.

“Oh, there’s my pie. I was beginning to wonder if you had to bake a new one.” Professor Brown deftly took the tray in one hand, and Mace’s wrist in the other. “I hope you don’t mind if I chat with your help a minute; he’s most interesting.”

“Go right ahead. I’m not getting much help out of him, anyway,” Trent said.

“Sit, brat,” the silver-haired guy growled as they approached the table.

Mace froze and looked around as if he expected someone to materialize from the woodwork.

“Yes, you’re a brat, and you know what it means, don’t you, boy? You know exactly what sort of submissive I’m talking about. I watched you walk all over your partner, and Milton’s been watching for the last month.”

“Are you spying on me?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Professor Brown said and took a bite of pie. “I’ve been watching the show you and your partner have been putting on. If you know what to look for, it’s obvious.”

“And what do you want with me?” Mace stabbed his pie with a fork.

“Nothing if you don’t want it, but I need another laborer for my construction crew,” Mr. Martin said in a level tone.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of gimpy.”

“That shouldn’t matter. You can still swing a hammer.”

“Trent needs my help.”

“Yes, he does,” Professor Brown said. “But right now you aren’t providing any. Don’t start protesting. I’ve been watching.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“In most circles it would be none.” Mr. Martin reached out and put his hand over Mace’s. “Stop stabbing the pie and concentrate on what I’m saying. I’m a top as is Milton. We come from a tradition of tops where we not only have a responsibility to our own boys but any boy in distress.”

“And you think I’m a boy and in distress?” Mace said sarcastically. “You’ve known me for five minutes—no, ten minutes now.

“Don’t you?” Mr. Martin asked mildly. The interactions I’ve seen you have with your partner don’t look fun, and as I already said Milton’s been watching for a while.”

“Stay out of my fucking life.” Mace shot out of the chair, but Mr. Martin still had a firm grip on his hand.

“Think about it. If you want the job, I’ll meet you out front Monday morning at five thirty.”

Mace wanted to storm back behind the counter away from those prying busybodies, but the best he could do was limp, and it wasn’t like he had the warm welcoming arms of Trent to fall into. Trent was giving him the cold shoulder.

 

****

“You took the job, didn’t you?” Steve’s blue eyes were bright with interest. “What did Trent think about it?”

“He asked me about my conversation with those two gentlemen, as he put it. I told him about the job offer. I kind of skated around the whole power exchange thing. I wasn’t ready to discuss that with him. He encouraged me to take the job. A change of scenery would do me good or something.”

“So what happened?” Steve asked.

“Let me guess,” Mike said. “You got spanked. Milton and Joshua told Trent, and you all lived happily ever after.”

“It wasn’t that simple. I got spanked, but it took another six months for me to talk to Trent about it, and that only happened after I started tossing plates around. Milton put his foot down.”

“You were living here before you were in an established power exchange relationship?” Mike asked.

“Yep, you know how persuasive Milton can be. He convinced Trent that 

those two tiny rooms we shared were only suitable for nineteenth century paupers.”

“You knew about Milton and Sheldon?” Mike asked.

“How could you not living here? I hid upstairs, pretending that it wasn’t happening. Milton topped me, and even Tilden did in his gentle way, but they never physically touched me. I think Milton was trying to convince Trent to do it.”

“But Joshua spanked you?” Steve asked.

“Steve, you have a one track mind,” Mace said with a smile. “Hold your horses, and I’ll tell you. It’s not as bad as you think. Joshua Martin will take good of you. I had to push him hard, and he still offered me an escape route.

 

****

Mace had been on his new job for a little over a week. Martin had paired him with an older guy to learn the trade, as he explained  it. Lloyd was a big guy with a spare tire and a full belly laugh. He was putting two kids through college, and he claimed it gave him insight to young guys like Mace.

Mace liked working with him. He didn’t bug Mace when Mace answered in monosyllables and grunts. He’d invited Mace to lunch a couple of times, but after Mace made several excuses Lloyd quit bothering him, but still treated Mace in an offhand, friendly way.

Today Lloyd was off at a second job site, and Mace was paired with Randy, a twenty something guy with long black curls and more eyebrow rings than Mace could easily count. Mace might have been gay, but he didn’t get jewelry on guys, and black fingernails were really too much. Randy gave Mace a sour look when Martin had assigned the two of them to demolition work on the fourth floor. As Mace was getting the tools, he saw Randy sidle up to Martin, and Mace suspected plead for a change of assignment. Mace was too far away to hear the conversation, but from the boss’s body language Mr. Martin couched his denial in the strongest terms. Martin was a no nonsense type of guy. If you did your work and didn’t complain, he was civil, almost chivalrous at times, but Mace had heard him shred a guy who came in late twice in one week. 

Mace hauled the tools to the fourth floor. They were rehabbing an old warehouse turning it into loft apartments. This floor would have large glass windows and a view over a new park when it was completed, but now it was crisscrossed with rotten floorboards, old machinery and rusty metal cabinetry that needed to be removed. Bright yellow paint had been splashed on the weakened floorboards, and one section was roped off with caution tape. They couldn’t replace the floor until all the fixtures had been removed. Martin had warned Mace to be careful the first day Mace had worked up here with Lloyd.

Mace started with the crowbar, loosening the counters from the wall. It would go faster if Randy was helping, but he must have been downstairs chatting with his friends; he was tight with the two guys who did most of the finishing work. Mace was sure Randy was complaining about being demoted to grunt work.

Randy appeared in the doorway, a sour expression on his face, twirling a crowbar in his hand. “All right, gimp, did you rat me out to the boss man about something? Is that how I got stuck doing this grunt shit?” Randy stomped across the floor and yanked at the side of the counter. 

“Careful, the floor’s weak.”

“That’s Lloyd and Martin being their usual pricks about safety. I’m surprised we ever get any fucking work done and don’t spend all day putting on safety goggles and hard hats.”

Randy fumed about something the entire time they were ripping out the counter. By the time they moved to the wall cabinets, he was ragging on Mace about everything from Mace’s hairstyle to the current state of politics. Mace bit his tongue and concentrated on using his crowbar.

“Oh, the gimp can’t talk. You must be one of Martin’s rescue projects. Did your wife beat your ass? Is that why your limping around like a fucking granny? I bet my baby brother could beat you to a pulp. I don’t know how he expects me to do demolition with you—one nail at a fucking time.”

“Maybe if you’d shut up, we’d get this job done,” Mace ground out between gritted teeth.

“Oh, wimp boy speaks. He can talk and limp at the same time. Miracles never cease.”

“A horse smashed my ankle,” Mace said, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he tried to keep his temper in check.

“What were you doing? Walking around on a pony ride?”

Mace turned away and concentrated on the cabinets. He couldn’t say anything else as he felt his anger increase to explosion level.

“I bet it was a merry-go-round. A live horse is too much for you,”  Randy leered.

Mace threw his crowbar down and lunged at Randy. “Shut the fuck up. I rode bucking horses until my ankle ended up a pile of steel and titanium.” Mace tried to tackle Randy, but on his still weak ankle his timing was off, and Randy easily dodged. Randy spun around and shoved Mace hard. Mace stumbled back, placing all his weight on his good leg directly on a section of floor marked with a splash of bright yellow paint.

The floor cracked ominously, and before Mace could shift his weight out of the circle, the floor gave way with a crash of rotting wood. Mace grabbed for a handhold, his fingers sliding across the wood. His tool belt slowed his plunge through the hole as it caught momentarily before pulling the snagged piece of wood through. Mace grabbed a finger hold on an exposed pipe on the floor and lay hanging, his feet dangling through to the floor below. 

Large industrial machines had filled the third floor, and if Mace remembered correctly, the ceiling was at least sixteen feet high, and the upper two feet were filled with a maze of copper pipes. His ankle would never survive the fall. “Can you pull me up?” Mace croaked.

Randy moved toward Mace. The floor cracked sending another shower of sawdust and rotten wood to the floor below. “I can’t get any closer.”

Mace heard pounding feet on the steel steps outside, and Linda, one of the foremen, and several guys burst in. She took in the situation in one sharp glance. “You,” she said, pointing at Chip, “go down a floor and support Mace’s feet so he doesn’t fall any farther. We’ll pull him up with a rope. There’s some rope on my truck. Move.” She shoved Randy out the door for the rope.

Mace felt Chip grab his feet, and some of the weight eased from his arms. Randy came running up the stairs, the rope wrapped around his shoulders. Martin was following close behind.

“I’m going to toss you the rope; try to wrap it around your arm so you don’t lose your grip. Chip will push from down below, and we should have you out of there in a jiffy,” Martin said in a calm voice.

Randy, Linda, and Martin all pulled on the rope, and Mace eased out of the hole. As soon as Mace cleared the bad floor, he stood up, brushing the wood and dust from his pants and shirt and feeling acutely embarrassed. It was his own stupidity and temper that had nearly gotten him hurt. Martin looked sharply at both Randy and Mace. He didn’t say anything, but placed a hand on each of their backs and pushed them in front of him down the stairs and out the building to the trailer that was the construction site office. Many of the workers had heard of the near calamity and smiled and nodded or asked Mace how he was doing. Martin hustled them forward fast enough that Mace could offer no more than a brief nod in reply.

In the trailer, he pushed them both into the battered metal folding chairs, and Martin sat on the desk, arms crossed, glaring at them. “What the hell were you two playing at?”

Mace stared at his boots. He hadn’t felt this way since he was hauled in front of the principal in middle school.

“The bad sections of the floor were clearly marked,” Martin growled.

Mace didn’t look up. He knew Martin’s expression was going to be cold and full of censure. He was going to get fired. The only thing he’d ever been good at was riding bucking horses, and he couldn’t do that. He was a worthless, bad tempered cripple. They ought to go shoot him like a broken-down horse.

Martin banged his fist against the desk, and both young men jumped. “I asked you a question, but neither of you seem to have the common courtesy to answer. Randy, go home. You’re suspended without pay until you find the courage to tell me what happened.”

“But—”

“No buts. Go.” Martin lowered his voice. “I know you and your wife are expecting a baby next month. I have every right to fire you over dangerous behavior. You might want to decide if your stubborn pride is worth losing your job.”

“Fuck you!” Randy spat as he hurled himself from his chair.

“I’m giving you a second chance, kid. Don’t throw it away.”

Randy didn’t answer. He stormed out of the trailer, slamming the door and causing the whole trailer to shake.

“OK, kid, look at me.” Martin’s voice was gentler than it had been with Randy, but it still hadn’t lost its ring of authority.

Mace fought to raise his eyes. He knew he was blushing, and his eyes glinted with tears, but he wasn’t a coward. He’d take his medicine like a man.

“You two were squabbling, got into some kind of pushing and shoving match, didn’t you? That’s how you ended up falling through the floor.”

Mace nodded and swallowed, his throat felt like the dust in the coral after an August drought.

“So what are we going to do about it?”

“I assume I’m fired,” Mace whispered.

“Is that what you want?”

Mace glanced up at Martin surprised by the question. “It’s not my choice.”

“It can be,” Martin said calmly. “I can treat you like an employee. In which case, you can collect your stuff and not come back, or I can treat you like the submissive you are. Spinning and bratting, but not a bad kid and not deserving such harsh treatment.”

“What happens if you treat me like a ..?” Mace picked dust from his jeans, unable to make eye contact with his boss and unable to say the word brat or submissive. He didn’t want to be fired, but he wasn’t one of those things.

“I’ll paddle you for fighting and dangerous behavior.” Martin said those astonishing words as if spanking an employee was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Mace could feel his mouth hanging open and shut it with a snap. “So I either get fired, or I let you hit me. Some choice.”

“I’d never hit you. I’ll spank you.” Martin stood up and touched Mace on the shoulder. “I think you’d feel a lot better if you choose to let me spank you, but it’s your choice.”

“Why me?” Mace managed to ask after a minute. “You didn’t suggest spanking to Randy.”

“Randy’s not a brat or a submissive. He’s just immature and insecure. You’re different, and I can help. Make your choice.”

Mace swallowed hard. His relationship with Trent was on the rocks. They were struggling for every penny they earned. He didn’t want to go home and tell him he’d been fired for behaving like an idiot. “Do it.”

“Do what?” Martin asked, not removing his hand from Mace’s shoulder.

“Paddle me. Damn it. What else do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. That’s what I needed you to say. Go lean over the desk. This time I’ll let you keep your pants on.”

This time, Mace thought as he stretched over the desk. There wasn’t going to be a next time. He wasn’t going to give this dirty old man two chances to spank his ass. Out of the corner of his eye, Mace saw Martin pull a small paddle out of the filing cabinet and lock the trailer door. Who keeps paddle in their office? flashed through Mace’s mind as Martin placed a hand on the small of Mace’s back.

Four blows fell hard and fast. “Shit,” Mace gasped under his breath. This hurt more than he expected. Martin had stopped. It couldn’t be over already.

“Do you want me to continue, or would you rather be fired?”

“I gave you fucking permission. Get on with it.” Mace gritted his teeth and braced himself, expecting more blows to fall.

“You gave me permission without knowing what it would feel like. There’s no shame in changing your mind.”

“Go on,” Mace spat out. This was ridiculous, having a conversation while laying over a desk, his chest pressed into building plans.

“Good boy.” Martin rubbed the small of Mace’s back for several seconds before he resumed the paddling.

Mace lurched at the first stroke. It seemed harder than the previous swats. He bit down on his lip and screwed his eyes shut. He could endure this; he wasn’t going to cry.  Mace didn’t know how many times Martin spanked, scorching his butt and the top of his thighs. Fuck it hurt! The sharp sting was building to intolerable levels, and Mace was now swearing out loud when he had enough breath.

Martin stopped, but the paddle was still resting on Mace’s butt as if this was a lull in the action. “Hey, kid, you can cry. I won’t think any less of you, and you’ll feel better. That’s what this exercise is about.”

What the hell is he talking about? Mace thought in confusion. He sets my ass on fire and now he’s babbling about making me feel better. The guy is off his rocker.

Martin rubbed Mace’s back. “I’ve got you. Let it go.”

Mace took a shuddering breath, but bit back the sob. A fresh round of swats landed. He jerked and would have crawled away if Martin hadn’t had him pinned to the desk. It was too much, and the tears broke through with a rush. Mace thought only a few more swats landed after he started to sob, but he couldn’t think straight with tears pouring down his face and choking his throat. At some point, Martin had flipped Mace around, and now Mace was kneeling his head buried in the lap of the guy that had just spanked him to tears. He struggled. This wasn’t right.

“Let me up.”

“Shh, I’ve got you. It’s safe here,” Martin soothed and tightened his arms. “That’s a good boy.”

Mace still tried to escape the grip. He should be angry, not sobbing his heart out on the man who hurt him.

“Take the comfort, or do you need another taste of my paddle?”

Mace stopped struggling. He didn’t know if Martin was kidding, but his butt was too sore to find out.

“Good boy.” Mace felt the hand on his neck rubbing and then a gentle, fatherly kiss on the back of his head. “You’ve lost a lot—the rodeo, the horses. You think you’ve lost everything you loved and were good at. Grieve for that, but don’t bury yourself in a pit of darkness. You’ve got Trent, and he loves you. He must, to put up with your moods right now.” Martin chuckled softly and kissed Mace’s hair again. “And you’ve got Milton and me. We’ll do everything we can to make it better, easier, but it starts with you. Accept our help. Don’t fight us.”

Mace looked up, wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. Martin was smiling at him, deep crinkles around his eyes. Mace tried to smile back, but it came out more like a grimace.

“Sore?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you feel better otherwise?”

Mace nodded and gave Martin a sheepish grin. This was crazy; he did feel better. How had Martin known about the rodeo stuff? He wasn’t thinking straight, Mace thought as he pressed his face into Martin’s shirt.

“Good man. Up you get. I’ve got to go back to work.” Martin drew Mace to his feet and enveloped him in a strong hug. He grabbed a roll of paper towels off his desk and reached into the mini fridge for a bottle of water. ”Wipe your face.”

Mace could feel himself blush to the roots of his hair when he thought of the other construction guys knowing that he’d been crying. He rubbed at his face with his dusty sleeve.

“Use the paper towels and water; it will work better.” Martin swatted Mace lightly on the outside of his thigh. “Water. Towels. No one will know.” Martin squeezed Mace’s shoulders. If anyone asks why your eyes are red, we’ll tell him that you got some dust in them. OK?”

Mace nodded and wiped his his face with a wet towel.

 

****

“God, I’d die if someone did that to me,” Steve broke in.

“He didn’t do it to me. I let him do it. I gave him permission to do it. There’s a big difference, cowboy,” Mace said.

“It wasn’t much of a choice—get spanked or fired. It doesn’t seem fair.” Steve was swinging his his feet against the sofa and tossing a small throw pillow up in the air and catching it.

“Steve, put the pillow down,” Mace scolded. “Throwing things in this house doesn’t go over well.”

Steve paled and hugged the pillow to his chest. “They wouldn’t spank me for it?”

“Probably not—lines or corner time,” Mace said.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Sheldon said from the doorway. 

“I see you finally decided to grace us with your presence,” Mace said dryly.

“Yep and Luke’s up too. What’s with the tops? They’ve got themselves barricaded in the kitchen. They even chased Tilden’s parents into the dining room. And who’s this?” Sheldon asked, pointing at Steve. “He’s not moving in with us, is he? I can only mentor two babies at once. A third, and I’ll need a raise.”

“Don’t mind him,” Luke said, laughing and giving Sheldon a push into the living room. “His bark’s a lot worse than his bite, and Milton keeps him short leashed and muzzled.”

“When did sweet Luke start being such a smart ass?” Sheldon asked, giving Luke a shove.

“Stop it,” Mace growled, doing a fair imitation of a top. Do you want to scare Steve to death? Because that’s what will happen if you two start fighting.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sheldon agreed, flopping down on the other sofa. “Seeing us all get paddled is probably a hard introduction to this lifestyle. So what have you been telling him? All good things about me, I hope.”

“Sheldon, you’re in rare form. Hasn’t Milton been spanking you enough?” Mike teased.

Sheldon rolled his eyes. “He made me go to the art museum yesterday. That was punishment enough, and my ass is never as cool as a cucumber.”

“You wouldn’t want it that way. You prefer a red, hot, and smokey,” Mace drawled.

“Said like a true saint from the boy who whips plates across the room,” Sheldon shot back.

“That was years ago, and I’ve already bared my soul enough today.”

“What did you tell them?”

“About when I worked construction with Joshua.”

“And you told me not to scare the baby,” Sheldon said with a grin.

The doorbell rang, the chimes reverberating through the house. Sheldon jumped up and looked out the window. “Shit! Milton’s going to have my ass on a plate.”

“Why?” Mace asked.

“It’s the TV people. They’re here to interview Tilden’s parents. I’ve known about it since Friday. Milton doesn’t do withholding information.

“Ah, Sheldon,” Mace drawled and ruffled his friend’s hair. “You’re in trouble, my friend.”

“Thanks for cheering me up.” Sheldon grimaced. “I guess it’s time to face the music.”

“So you knew about this,” Milton said from the doorway.

“Yeah, I’m guilty as charged.”

“Mace, take Steve to the restaurant with you. He doesn’t need to deal with these TV people. Upstairs, Sheldon. We’ll discuss it later.”

“You mean your hand will discuss it with my butt.”

“I could use something besides my hand.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sheldon said, shaking his head. “I’ll go upstairs like a good boy.”

“You a good boy?” Milton snorted, but he was smiling.

“Come on,” Mace said, catching Steve’s hand. “We’ve got Sunday tea to serve. Milton and Tilden will hold the fort here.”

Steve looked wide-eyed at Milton, but allowed Mace to pull him up and toward the doorway. Milton reached out and hooked Steve’s shoulders as he tried to slip by the imposing figure in the doorway.

“I won’t kill Sheldon. He knew what he signed up for when he didn’t tell me about my favorite TV people. Now skedaddle before they trap you here.” Milton kissed the frightened boy’s forehead and gave him a light swat on his rump. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

**Chapter 8**

 

The TV people had set up again in the living room. Milton had somehow stalled them long enough to give Tilden time to get everyone dressed in what Tilden considered appropriate clothes for an interview and to reassure his parents that the questions wouldn’t be too invasive. Luke thought that was unlikely, having remembered the previous interviews and the abundance of questions on spanking. He couldn’t imagine this would be any different. 

That horrible Fiona was here again, smoothing her hair down and arranging Tilden’s family in front of the fireplace. “It’s a pity you don’t have a Christmas tree. It would make a lovely background for your little family.”

“Unlike the stores, we prefer to put up a tree in December, not before Thanksgiving,” Tilden said, not hiding his irritation as Fiona moved the furniture around, trying to create the perfect homey atmosphere. “We live here, and we like how the living room is decorated.”

“Is your son always this testy?” Fiona asked Tilden’s mom.

“No, only before breakfast on Sunday.”

“He’s like his mother.” Arthur tugged on the ends of his bow tie as he crossed his legs. “He doesn’t like anyone messing with his house or his things. You should have seen Dorothy with the movers last time. I think they all aged five years before they left. She inspected every box and supervised the wrapping of all the furniture.” 

Tilden must have dressed Arthur because his shirt was ironed and the tie matched, but Luke caught a glance at Arthur’s socks. One was gray and one was black; Tilden was probably silently groaning, especially since his dad was wearing worn slippers with a torn sole rather than real shoes.

“So,” Fiona said, smiling brightly, “do you think your son takes after his mother more than you?”

“His mother, of course,” Arthur said. “Do I looked organized? Tilden was born organized. He did inherit my ability for languages. Did you know he could write in three different alphabets by the time he was ten? I used to find him sprawled on the floor with my foreign language dictionaries in front of him, painstakingly copying out the words. When he was five, we had refrigerator magnets in both Russian and English.”

“We had a Greek and Arabic set also,” Tilden added. 

“Don’t forget the Hebrew set. Our refrigerator used to look like the United Nations,” Arthur continued. “Once he could read, we used to have contests on who knew common words in more languages. The loser had to take out the trash.”

“I always lost.”

“Not once you were older, son. Remember when you learned the word for table in thirty languages?“

“I think taking out the trash would’ve been easier,” Mike said.

“Where’s the challenge in that?” Tilden laughed.

“I hate to interrupt this fascinating reminiscence, but I’m sure our audience is more interested in your parents’ first impression of your partners than how to say table in Russian,” Fiona said, again giving them a wide, fake smile, her perfectly white teeth shimmering in the glare.

“ _Stol_ ,” Tilden, Mike, and Luke said simultaneously.

“Dorothy dear, can I call you Dorothy?”

“You will anyway. TV hosts have no manners,” Dorothy said frostily. “Do you have a question?”

“What do you think of your son’s two partners?”

“I think they’re lovely.” Dorothy gave Luke and Mike a warm smile.

“Don’t you find it—how should we say this—a little unorthodox?” Fiona cocked her head and flashed the cameras a false smile.

“My son is more than capable of loving two men. He has a very full heart, and I’m glad he can share it with these two beautiful young men. If everybody was orthodox as you describe it, life would be a boring place.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Tilden whispered and wrapped an arm around each of his partners.

“Could you speak up, please.” Fiona waved her sound man forward.

“ _Spasibo, mamochka_.”

“And in English, please.”

“Don’t you like foreign languages, miss?” Arthur asked. “That would be a real shame because this family has a long tradition of foreign language learning and teaching. My father taught foreign languages and translated numerous famous works of literature. His grandmother helped develop a written language for several native tongues of the Americas. It was groundbreaking at the time for a women to be involved in such work. Unfortunately many of those languages have been lost. It’s tragic when a language loses its last native speaker. A whole culture and history vanishes into thin air.”

“Arthur, I’m sure it’s fascinating,” Fiona interrupted with a false smile and batted her long eyelashes at him. “Our audience is more interested in your reaction to your son’s new partners.”

“We are delighted to have them in our family.”

“But aren’t you concerned about your son having two young partners and wielding authority in the relationship?”

“Oh, you mean it’s not what the Jones’ do? I was just telling you about our long heritage of being on the cutting edge of society. According to our family legend, William and Patrick, two supposed brothers, who traveled to the shores of the new world prior to the Revolution, may not have been brothers. I am proud of our son.”

“It doesn’t bother you or your wife that he spanks his partners? It seems pretty kinky to me,” Fiona said with a wink.

“He’s a top. I’m not. Do you discuss your adult children’s most intimate relations?”

“My children are still young.”

“Oh, my apologies. I thought you looked older, or did you marry late?” Arthur gave Fiona a sweet, innocent smile.”

“Dad,” Tilden groaned.

“What, son? I thought it was a fair question.”

“Don’t set a bad example for the young people, dear,” Dorothy said. Luke could tell she was doing her utmost to keep from laughing.

Fiona regained her poise and continued her questioning. “You are aware that your son spanks his partners?”

Luke could feel his cheeks reddening. It wasn’t a state secret, he kept telling himself, but still...

“My son’s intimate relations with his partners are his private affairs,” Dorothy said. “We would never interfere unless requested, or they were unhappy. They are very happy, and I trust Tilden’s friends.”

“Speaking of friends, you are aware of Tilden’s relationships with his housemates?”

“I wish we were all blessed to have the type of friends Tilden has. His friends are truly family.”

Luke couldn’t help but smile. Tilden’s mom was holding her own with horrible Fiona, and the frustration was evident behind the host’s polished exterior. 

“What a lovely family you have,” Fiona said in a cloyingly sweet voice.

“And what terrible TV,” Arthur added with a laugh. “I’m afraid we don’t do anything exciting—no swearing, no hair pulling, no punching each other out. We’re a nice normal family.”

Luke could bet that Fiona was muttering under her breath, “With a top for a son.”

“So, boys, what do you think about your new in-laws?” Fiona asked brightly.

Luke looked at Mike; he hated questions about family. Luke liked Tilden’s parents, but what did he say? They seemed nicer than his own father. His dad would never defend him the way Tilden’s parents had unless there was some financial gain in the process.

“We like them,” Mike said. “They’re fun, and they keep Tilden distracted. We can get away with murder when they’re here.”

“Brat.” Tilden ruffled Mike’s hair. “Just wait til they leave.”

“So have you altered your discipline strategy when your parents are here?” Fiona asked.

“Do you discuss intimate topics with your parents or perform intimate acts in their sight?” Tilden asked, his voice growing cold. “I’m sure you do not, but back to your question. Nothing has changed because of my parents’ visit. We have nothing to hide.”

“Luke, do you agree with your partner’s assessment?”

Luke could feel his cheeks turning a flaming red. Tilden had no problem setting him straight when he and Mike had their little shoving match. Tilden had been discreet, but Luke was sure Tilden’s parents had figured it out. But Luke didn’t want to announce it to the world. Somehow giving voice to that aspect of their relationship was more difficult than the actual spanking. 

“Oh, so you’ve been in trouble while his folks are here?” Fiona leered.

Luke could feel his cheeks turning even redder. 

“Didn’t we have this conversation before about inappropriate questions?” Tilden said and tightened his arm around Luke. “I’m more than happy to stop this interview right now.”

Fiona smiled and held up a manicured hand. “I know you are very protective of your young partners.” Luke could hear the emphasis on young and cringed. “You signed a contract providing access during the filming of the show. I don’t think you want to be in breach of contract.”

Tilden smiled, but it was a chilling smile, not the smile that lit up his eyes and made him look like an overgrown teenager. “I don’t think you want to threaten us. The welfare of my family comes first, and I believe any court in this land will uphold that. Now do you have any other questions?”

Fiona licked her lips; her lipstick was too red and too thickly applied to be attractive. “Next week you have the first group outing at the house. How do you plan to protect your partners during the outing?”

“That’s my secret. We tops have to keep a few things in reserve.” Tilden flashed his partners a genuine smile, his eyes twinkling.

“We have a group get together,” Mike said. “Cool. How come we didn’t know about this? Are you keeping secrets from us?” Mike gently punched Tilden’s shoulder.

“No, remember that’s why my parents came before Thanksgiving. We have the schedule that said to keep Thanksgiving weekend open. It just didn’t say what to expect.”

“It should be fun. No homework for a weekend.”

“The same rules apply,” Tilden said softly.

“You’re a party-pooper,” Mike complained.

“Yes, I am. But you wouldn’t want it any other way, would you?”

“No,” Luke said and snuggled closer to Tilden.

“Protection from the savages,” Tilden teased and kissed his young partner’s forehead. “I’m sure we’ll have a good time.

“The perpetual optimist,” Mike said with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll be on such a short leash I won’t be able to breathe without your permission. I can see it now.”

“Yep, I’ll handcuff you to me and put a collar on you.” 

“Yuck,” Mike said and made a face. “I’m not into bondage. 

“Then don’t tempt me.” Tilden smiled and winked.

“In all seriousness,” Fiona said, breaking up the teasing, “are you boys concerned about being in company of other brats with such a strict top?”

“You haven’t met Milton,” Mike said with a grin. “Tilden’s easy.”

“Behave,” Tilden mock growled. “I could make your life a lot more difficult.”

“You wouldn’t.” Mike stuck his tongue out. “ _Ti lyubish menya.”_

_“Lyublyu.”_

“In English, please,” Fiona said, irritated. “I think the question I asked didn’t violate any of Tilden’s high moral principles, and I deserve an answer, not babbling in Russian.”

“Stick to the fluff style of interviewing,” Tilden said easily. “You’re not intimidating, but I have no problem with Mike and Luke answering the question. Interacting with others in a power exchange relationship is an important part of their education.”

“Their education?” Fiona asked, lifting her plucked eyebrows into her hairline.

“Yes, their education,” Tilden repeated. “They live in a very special relationship. A relationship that is unusual and which many submissives jump into unaware of the full implications of a power exchange. I wield enormous power, but so do they. Other submissives are the best teachers. It is by interacting with each other that a submissive truly understands this relationship.”

Fiona sat back and smoothed her skirt. Luke could tell that Tilden’s lecturing had disturbed the flow of her questioning. “So, Luke,” she said, “your partner has given a passionate argument that he’s not more strict than other tops and welcomes your interaction with fellow brats. I’ve interviewed several other couples from this program, and I can assure you that Tilden is the bossiest top I’ve met. Most of your companion brats wouldn’t tolerate his strictness. How does that make you feel?”

Luke leaned into Tilden and breathed deeply. His top—he still felt like he needed to pinch himself when he said it—was a calm, steady presence as his side. Mike was wiggling, clearly wanting to add something, but Tilden whispered a demand for restraint in his ear. “I like Tilden the way he is. I feel safe with him.” Luke tried to keep his voice steady. He wasn’t going to let that women know that she flustered him.

Tilden kissed the top of Luke’s hair. “You’re mine.” He turned and repeated, “You’re mine,” to Mike before kissing his forehead.

“How touching,” Fiona said, “but will you remember this when you’re in trouble for something that’s OK for the other brats?”

“Probably not,” Tilden said with a smile, saving either boy from answering. “But we’ll work it out. That’s what we do.” Tilden stood up. “We weren’t expecting you this morning, so if you’ll excuse us, we’d like to have breakfast.”

Fiona nodded and turned to speak into the camera. “Tilden, our only top involved in a threesome, has promised to keep his brats on a short leash even when they meet the other brats at the house next week. I, myself, am fascinated to find out if they can handle seeing the freedom their friends enjoy. I don’t think they’ll be as calm as they were today.”

Tilden herded everyone back into the kitchen before they could hear any more.

“Stop your border collie routine,” Dorothy said with a fond smile. “I’m more than capable of handling that woman.”

“I’m sure you are, Mom. It’s just habit.”

“I know, honey. I’ve seen Milton do it. It must be a top thing.”

Milton was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, surrounded by a sea of papers. “I’ve got yours here somewhere,” he said to Mike as reached under a pile of papers. He folded it and handed it to Mike. “You write well, and Luke, I can’t give you a grade, but it was a good paper. You’ll do well next semester.”

Mike unfolded his paper. “Holy shit,” he murmured. “I got an A from the toughest grader on campus.”

“Watch your language, young man,” Milton said, but he was smiling. “I think my reputation exceeds reality. I gave several A’s on this paper, and I could have given one more if we hadn’t had a slight problem earlier in the year.” Milton reached out and tousled Luke’s hair. “Don’t sell yourself short, boy.”

“Thanks, Milton,” Tilden said

“It’s my pleasure to see students do well.” Milton gathered his papers into a stack. “Are they about done in there?”

“I think Fiona was wrapping things up,” Tilden said.

Luke realized that Milton was eying the stairs. He’d sent Sheldon upstairs earlier, and he must have wanted some privacy to take care of business.

“Why don’t you go to have tea at the the bookshop? I’m sure everyone’s hungry,” Milton said.

“And you’d like to have some privacy,” Tilden said with a laugh. “I think we can manage that.” 

“Arthur and I would like to go into Boston to do some shopping, and I’m sure you boys would like some time without the parents in your hair,” Dorothy said.

“Mom, you’re not in our hair.”

“Oh, yes, we are, honey. Plus we need to Christmas shop now that there are more family members.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“I know, Dad, that’s why the computer was invented. Mom’s hellbent on her shopping expedition. The car keys are in the mud room. Do you know how to get there?”

“I’m sure your mother has it all mapped out with turn by turn directions,” Arthur said dryly. “She likes to be prepared.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Mike said.

“Someone in this family has to be prepared,” Tilden teased and made a grab for Mike who ducked around the table.

“No fighting in the kitchen,” Milton said, snaring Mike and landing a teasing swat on his hip. “Behave, boy. Did getting an A make you too big for your britches?”

“No, sir,” Mike said, trying to sound innocent and contrite.

“Do you think I believe that tone in you?” Milton asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No, sir.” Mike’s face suddenly clouded over, and his tone changed. “I wish Steve was here. He’s never seen us play. He was so scared this morning.”

“Playing with me, brave boy.” Milton kissed Mike’s forehead. “You are a good boy. You’ve learned a lot since Trent and I dragged you out of that party.”

“Don’t remind me,” Mike groaned.

“Go visit with your friend. I need to have a chat with Sheldon, and then we’ll be over.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

**Chapter 9**

 

The Olde Curiosity Shop was full with blue-haired ladies sipping tea while their husbands wrestled with folded newspapers and with college students who had either awoken too late for breakfast in the cafeteria or preferred a meal in which the main course was not mystery meat. Luke recognized several of his friends clustered around a table, drinking lattes and laughing. Steve was behind the counter, doing something with a napkin dispenser. He had a spare apron tied around his waist and looked like a busboy.

Trent came over to the table and set a pot of tea and and enough cups for everyone in front of Tilden. “Should I set two extra places for Milton and Sheldon?”

“They’ll be here later,” Tilden said. “How’s Steve holding up?”

“I’m keeping him busy—”

“And out of trouble?” Tilden raised his eyebrows.

“That kid’s a trouble magnet. He about got into with the kids over there. They were changing their order every two seconds; I think intentionally needling him. Mace recognized the signs of an impending thrown coffee cup and rescued him. I’ve been keeping him behind the counter ever since. I don’t want to make him a slave to the dishwasher.”

“Send him out here. We’ll keep him company,” Tilden said.

Trent nodded and a minute later he came back, his hand resting on Steve’s shoulder.  Steve looked petrified, and he kept looking back over his shoulder at the group of kids sitting in the window. Trent pulled out a chair and gently pushed Steve into it. “Take a break, kiddo. I’ll bring you all some food, and this time try to eat something.”

Steve slumped in the chair. He laid his head on the table and covered it with his arms.

“Styopa, sit up.” Tilden put his hand on Steve’s shoulder and shook him lightly. 

“Leave me alone.”

“No, sit up,” Tilden said in a sharper tone.

“He’s starting to get huffy. I’d sit up, or he might haul you up and swat you,”  Mike said.

Steve sat up. His eyes were red, and he looked pale and shaky. “Can’t you leave me alone? I’m sorry I got in a fight with your precious brat, but this isn’t my thing. I’m going home.” Steve started to stand; a choked sob escaped his lips. He pulled hard, but couldn’t get his wrist out of Tilden’s grip.

“Sit down. We’re in public here. Do you want to put a show on for the entire restaurant, especially the hooligans in the window?” 

Luke shivered, even though the words weren’t directed at him. Tilden’s voice had a low intensity that cut through him like a knife.

Steve slumped back in the chair, a picture of defeat.

“Thank you,” Tilden said softly. Luke didn’t see Tilden’s hand come back on the table; he must still have a hold of Steve’s wrist. “I find public displays of dominance embarrassing.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Mike said with a laugh.

“Mishka.” There was a slight warning in the tone, but Tilden’s eyes were smiling. “Now, Steve, you’re going to sit here and have a nice chat about the upcoming holidays or whatever normal college guys talk about and have some brunch. Nothing scary or weird, I promise.”

“Normal college guys usually talk about girls. I don’t think that will work for us,” Mike said with a smile.

“Not unless there’s something I don’t know about you,” Tilden shot back.

“No, nothing,” Mike replied with a grin.

Mace arrived with trays of food. “I didn’t know if you wanted breakfast or lunch, so I brought both.”

“We’re not feeding the Red Army here,” Tilden said, looking over the food.

“I know but Steve has that pinched look like somebody living off midnight pizza delivery and terrible cafeteria food for too long. Sheldon always has a hollow leg, and those two are no slackers.” Mace winked at Luke and Mike as he put the tray down. “Other tables beckon; I figure you can help yourself to what you want.”

“Styopa, if I let go of your wrist, do you promise me to stay put? I can still do a flying rugby tackle if I need to,” Tilden said with a slight grin.

Steve nodded. “I’ll stay.”

“ _Maladets.”_ Tilden smiled and started dishing food onto everybody’s plates.

Mace and Trent had outdone themselves. There were two types of egg casseroles, stuffed hard-boiled eggs, cold salads, cucumber sandwiches, and three types of fried potatoes. Tilden placed ample amounts of everything on the plates and passed them around.

Luke dug in. He especially liked the latkes that Trent would make occasionally if he begged hard enough. Tilden didn’t say anything to Steve but handed him his fork and rather pointedly looked at the plate. Steve took a small bite of potatoes, and then it was like the floodgates opened. The potatoes vanished off his plate followed by the deviled eggs. 

Trent walked by, casually filling the water glasses as Steve swallowed another egg. “I guess I found the right combination.”

“I love deviled eggs,” Steve said between bites.

“He wasn’t too shabby with the potatoes either,” Tilden added.

“”Don’t you know the way to a young man’s heart is fried potatoes and sweets. It works every time,” Trent said.

Steve turned red and looked down at his plate.

“Kiddo, we’re just teasing. It’s a rough crowd here. I’m rather partial to fried potatoes myself. Eat up.” Trent squeezed Steve’s shoulder. Trent bent down and spoke in a softer tone. “We like you, kiddo, so you better get used to us.”

Luke could tell that Steve had no idea how to respond to the last comment. He blushed and scraped his fork around his already empty plate, looking uncomfortable. Tilden took the opportunity with Trent’s body shielding them from public view to chastely kiss Steve on the cheek.

“You have four tops looking out for you so relax and enjoy yourself,” Tilden said.

Steve swallowed hard at that comment and reached for his water glass.

“And two of them are Green Mountain Boys,” Trent added.

“What are Green Mountain Boys?” Luke asked. He’d heard the term applied to Milton once or twice but nobody ever explained it.

“You haven’t told them?” Trent asked, giving Tilden an expression of wide-eyed innocence.”

“No, I haven’t, and if you keep looking at me like that someone will mistake you for a brat.”

“Get Milton to tell you, boys, if your partner is having a sudden fit of shyness.” Trent whacked Tilden with a tea towel before heading off to another table, laughing.

“Green Mountain Boys?” Mike asked, raising his eyebrow in an excellent imitation of a top.

“Ask Milton or Joshua. They’re the members. I just went to a few meeting,” Tilden busied himself putting more food on his plate.

“What aren’t you telling us about it?” Mike pressed.

“That we got in rip roaring trouble over it the year we did the summer Russian program together. Tilden prefers not to be on the wrong side of authority,” Milton said with a smile, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. 

He’d come in with Sheldon when they were talking, and Luke hadn’t noticed them. Sheldon looked amazingly chipper for a man who’d just been spanked. The only sign was that he eyed the hard chair suspiciously before easing down on it.

“If I don’t sit, my ogre will make me kneel,” Sheldon joked.

“Don’t scare the newbie to death.” Milton ruffled Sheldon’s red hair. “You’re married to a Green Mountain Boy. You’re sworn to protect and uphold the power exchange and to aid all tops and brats or more correctly all dominants and submissives  in distress.”

“I give thee my allegiance and my fidelity,” Sheldon smirked.

“Brat.” The tone was both affectionate and exasperated as Milton sat down next to Sheldon and pulled him into a quick hug. “So who brought up the Green Mountain Boys?”

“Trent,” Tilden said.

“What are we going to do with him?” Milton joked. “Revoke his top license?” Milton turned and unhurriedly helped himself to the food.

Mike squirmed in his seat. “Aren’t your going to tell us?”

“Impatient, aren’t we?” Milton said and slowly cut his sausage into minute, perfectly matched pieces.

“Come on. Don’t torture us,” Mike groaned.

“Should I tell them?” Milton consulted with Sheldon. “Do you think they’re worthy of knowing?”

“Most definitely, your grace.”

“I guess the ayes have it,” Milton said, taking a swallow of coffee. “Steve, you might as well hear this from me as from Joshua since you’ve unknowingly fallen in the middle of it.” Milton must have noticed Steve blanch because he quickly continued, “It’s not a bad thing. I think you’ll have a lot of fun with it.” 

Milton took a bit of eggs and chewed carefully as if he were contemplating how to explain the mysterious Green Mountain Boys. “As most of you know, my grandfather is a dominant. Back when he was a young man, these kind of relationships were frowned upon. In some jurisdictions you could even be arrested for participating in a homosexual relationship and a power exchange relationship was never mentioned outside the most private corners of the home. My grandfather had a traditional marriage that resulted in the birth of my father. After the tragedy of his wife’s death, he could no longer live a lie and invited his lover to form a permanent relationship with him. This is the man I call my uncle.

“I didn’t know until my late teens what the relationship entailed. I accidentally saw my grandfather strap my uncle, his lover. It was a startling awakening to what it meant to be a top. Both these men who had cared for me since I was a small child, cleaned my skinned knees, sent me to my room when I was naughty, and loved me as thoroughly as any supposedly normal couple, were in a power exchange, and they told me I was a top. In no uncertain terms I was introduced to the responsibilities I would carry on my shoulders for the rest of my life.

“It was then that my grandfather told me about the Green Mountain Boys. He had helped form the organization back when he was in his twenties. It was a secret group of dominants and submissivess who came together for social events but also to train new tops and to protect submissives everywhere. Luke, Mike, you’ve lived in a discipline partnership long enough to realize that this type of relationship could be abused in the wrong hands. A Green Mountain Boy will intervene. We offer to educate and train the top at first, but if that fails we will bring the full force of the law down on the offending top and shelter the submissive for as long as needed. Steve, that’s why Joshua grabbed you last night, and that’s why I called him when Mike was so upset with Tilden.”

“He would have kept me?” Mike asked, toying with his water glass.

“Yes, if we thought it was needed. I’m too close to Tilden to provide the necessary buffer.”

“But he hadn’t done anything.” Mike said, his voice anguished.

“We know that, honey, but all accusations are taken seriously.”

Mike looked at Tilden and blinked back tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Mishenka, it’s all over. We’ve taken care of it, and now you know.” Tilden reached across the table and squeezed Mike’s hand. “We’ve got you, and you are loved.”

“Thank you,” Mike whispered, wiping a lone tear that was tracking down his cheek.

Steve was staring at Mike and Tilden with fascination. Luke could tell the new brat had a thousand questions but didn’t know where to start.

“They’re sweet together, aren’t they, like a cloying greeting card,” Sheldon said before letting out a strangled yelp. Milton must have just kicked his partner.

Milton cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to the story because I’m sure it’s making no sense to Steve. I finished high school in December, and my grandfather sent me to work for the Green Mountain Boys. Ostensibly I was a ski lift operator and resort jack of all trades, but I was actually apprenticed to learn to become a top. I spent most of the next few years either on my knees or over someone’s lap. I’ve been told I was rather rebellious,” Milton said with a wry grin. “I hope I learned to respect my partner’s willing sacrifice every time he yields to my will.” Milton gave Sheldon a long, searching look.

“You do,” Sheldon said. “I may complain bitterly when it’s happening, but I give myself freely and with absolute trust.”

“I will honor and cherish that trust always.” Milton took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.

“What does this have to do with me? I’m not a member of any secret societies, and I don’t want to be,” Steve said.

“Settle,” Milton said, his voice back to its usual authoritative tone. “Joshua is a Green Mountain Boy, and he takes his pledge to assist submissives in distress very seriously. That’s why he grabbed you last night, and you will be safe with him until you decide what you want.”

“But what if I don’t want this?” Steve said, his voice rising in panic. “It sounds downright medieval—pledges of loyalty, whippings, and God knows what else.”

“I promise, no rack and thumbscrews,” Milton said, interrupting Steve’s tirade. “Just relax and let us do the worrying for a while. We’re tops, so we’re good at it. I know this is a lot to take in, but I think you’ll be far happier if you let Joshua help. He cares, and he’s a good, safe top. In your state you’re an easy victim for a predator. You’re safe with him, and he knows quite a few young and attractive tops when the time’s right. He’s more active in the Green Mountain Boys than I am and knows all the young single members.”

“Fuck you! Who gave you permission to organize my life?” Steve tried to make a quick exit but was thwarted by Trent, who had materialized behind him.

“Was the food that bad?”

“Sit down. We’re not done yet.” Milton was now in full top mode, and his voice was sharp and uncompromising.

“I wouldn’t make him any more irritated if I were you,” Trent said, gently pushing Steve back in the chair. “Stay put.”

“It’s rude to leave a table in the middle of a conversation,” Milton rebuked mildly. “I want your word that you’ll stay put until we’re done.”

Steve looked at him and crumpled his napkin in his hand before unfolding it and smoothing it our again.

“I’ve told you a lot about me and about us.” Milton looked around the table, encompassing everyone in his gaze. “I think we deserve the common courtesy that you’ll stay and hear us out.”

“OK,” Steve muttered. “I don’t have a choice with this top brigade surrounding me.”

“You always have a choice,” Sheldon said. “If you calmly, with a rationally formed argument, tell Milton you want no part of this, he’ll let you go in a flash. The problem is you want it, and you’re too afraid to make the leap. We’ll help, and it’s worth it. Go with it. By sheer dumb luck you just landed yourself in a circle of friends who will always be there. It doesn’t matter if they have to bail you out of jail at two in the morning or sit with you all night at the hospital. Someone will come. You’ll never be alone again. I know you know what it means to be alone and frightened, or you wouldn’t have been at that meeting acting out. You asked for help the only way you knew how; now take it.”

“Well said,” Milton said softly. “Are you with us, boy, or do we abandon you to your fate in the dorms?”

“I’m with you,” Steve whispered.

“Hurrah,” Sheldon cheered. “I’ve exceeded my quota for impassioned speeches.” Sheldon ducked as Milton whacked him with a napkin. “No, seriously you won’t regret it. Well, maybe when you’re bare assed over someone’s knee.”

“Sheldon.” Milton swatted Sheldon again with the napkin. “Don’t ruin the good impression you just made. Steve, Joshua and Jeremiah will help you sort out your school work and any other small disasters that are going on in your life right now. Is there anything you need from me, or can I finish my breakfast?”

“I’m OK,” Steve said.

“You’re a long way from OK but hang in there, and it well get better.”

“I have a question,” Mike piped up. “Tilden, how are you involved with these Green Mountain Boys?”

“You would ask?” Tilden groaned. “Should I tell him?” Tilden shot a teasing grin at Milton.

“It’s a good story, and I think we’ll survive the embarrassment. Tell them.”

“You know that Milton and I did the summer Russian language program in Vermont. This was back before we developed the good judgement we have now.”

“Yeah,” Mike said, “but what does that have to do with the Green Mountain Boys?”

“I’m coming to that. Be patient. The Russian intensive summer program requires a pledge to speak only Russian during the entire program except during an emergency. Going out to a party is not considered an emergency. The Green Mountain Boys’ headquarters are only about twenty kilometers from the school. We went out and enjoyed the parties for a couple of weekends.”

“What’s wrong with that?,” Mike said. “Knowing you, I’m sure you drank responsibly.”

“We were both stone cold sober. Our crime was speaking English,” Tilden said dryly. “Little did we know the head of the Russian program was also on the high council of the Green Mountain Boys. He recognized us ‘openly speaking English’ as he grimly put it.”

“Oh, yes, life became very interesting from there,” Milton said with a small chuckle, “and painful.”

“The best part’s coming,” Sheldon said, not hiding his smirk.

“Let me tell it,” Tilden chided. “If you want your tops to thoroughly embarrass themselves at least let me tell my story at my own pace.”

“Get on with it then.” Sheldon grinned

“Pavel Antonovich took us into the back room. The lodge was an actual ski lodge in the winter, and the back room was the locker room, first aid room, and storage area for the instructors and staff. It smelled like a combination of sunscreen, sweat, and athletes foot powder. I still can’t smell sunscreen and look at skis without feeling slightly queasy. He sat down on the corner of a big desk, the kind you see in classrooms, and parked the two of us in front of him and gave us a blistering lecture in Russian that he simultaneously translated so we wouldn’t miss anything. He went on and on about integrity, honesty, and responsibility. I didn’t understand it at the time, but he kept going on about the oath of the Green Mountain Boys. Milton hadn’t been kind enough to reveal that side of his personality.”

“Low blow,” Milton said with a grin. “I didn’t hide it; I just didn’t shout it out in nice simple one syllable words.”

“No fighting, guys,” Sheldon joked. “We have to get to the punch line.”

“After the lecture, he pointed at two corners and guided us into them with an unpleasant swat to the fanny. I about jumped out of my shoes; no one had ever swatted me before, but after the lecture and with my very real fear of getting expelled, I scurried into the corner.”

“I think maybe fifteen minutes passed and a soft voice ordered us to turn around. A man in his early fifties was standing in front of us. There was nothing exceptionally imposing about his frame or his voice. In fact, I think his hair was thinning and the remaining strands were flecked with gray, but he held me frozen in his gaze, and Milton looked equally spellbound.”

“You can say that again. I would never have taken you there if I’d known he was going to be around. I thought he was in Peru or someplace, exploring unchartered rivers or searching for more mineral deposits.”

“Who was he?” Luke asked

“He was Gordon Lewis, my mentor in the Green Mountain Boys and a dear friend, but not a man to disappoint, and he was most definitely disappointed. He was carrying a cane.

“Tilden, do you remember much of what he said to us before he pronounced judgement? I think I was too busy looking at the cane.”

“He asked you if you thought I was a top or a submissive, and you immediately answered that I was a top,” Tilden said to Milton. “It’s the first time I’d thought of myself that way. He treated us to the shortened version of the lecture that Pavel Antonovich had just given. Then he gave me a choice, either allow him to punish me as he deemed fit for a top who had failed to lead and live up to his responsibilities or go through the school’s disciplinary process, which would most likely lead to expulsion.

“It wasn’t much of a choice. It would have killed my dad if I’d been expelled. As soon as I acquiesced, Gordon had me over the desk in a flash and applied three strokes of the cane. I think it was only his speed and deftness that kept me down on the desk, like the delayed reaction when you pick up a hot pan. He painted my rear with three lines of pure fire. He was so quick I didn’t get a howl out until the last one. He cajoled me back into the corner and had me interlace my hands on top of my head before he started on Milton.”

“I got six with my pants down. I was considered the responsible party. I didn’t sit comfortably for a week. Our grades for the summer program were certainly fantastic after that.”

“You would never cane me, would you?” Luke said, feeling strange butterflies in his stomach at the thought. Steve, who was sitting on the other side of Tilden, looked paler than the white curtains.

“Never.” Tilden kissed Luke’s forehead. “And I’d never punish you like that. I didn’t understand the rules. I couldn’t give informed consent. Gordon used his charisma and skill as a top to coerce me.”

“That was part of the lesson,” Milton said.

“I know, and I know he thought he was doing it for my own good. We’ve had this discussion several times, and I thought we’d decided to disagree. I know you respect and even like Gordon Lewis, but he made a mistake. Both you and he may think the real lesson of my caning was to teach you that you should never have placed a friend in such a situation without full knowledge and consent, but it was wrong. Yes, I’d disobeyed school rules, but I didn’t deserve three with the cane even if it was over my clothes, and if I’d been thinking right I would have realized that all that would have happened at school was a warning. It wasn’t like I was in danger of failing. I’d never been physically punished, and he manipulated me. I understand he taught me much that night about being a top, but there are kinder ways. Speed wasn’t important; I wasn’t expected to be at the front the next morning, shouldering a rifle or leading a regiment of men.” Tilden gave a shrug and a sheepish half smile. “Sorry, this was supposed to be a funny story. I shouldn’t have gone off on a tangent.”

Milton who had sat quietly through Tilden’s final discourse, stood up, walked behind Tilden’s chair, and rested his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me or him about your feelings?”

“Because he’s an arrogant son of a bitch and would never listen, and I did learn something. Never abuse your position of power,” Tilden said bitterly. “ _Ya perezhil.”_

“I survived,” Milton translated. He reached down and lifted his friend to his feet and enfolded Tilden into a hug. “This isn’t about surviving. It’s about being happy, thriving. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You like him, and what’s done is done. We can’t change the past. Plus,” Tilden said after a moment of silence, “I didn’t think it bothered me that much. I think having Mike and Luke has changed my perspective. I was damn uncomfortable, and I don’t much like Gordon, but what if it happened to one of my boys?”

“It wouldn’t,” Milton said forcefully. “You’ve never seen Gordon with a submissive in distress; he’s very good.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Luke thought from Milton’s expression that he wanted to scold Tilden for his sarcastic tone of voice. Instead after a glance at the men sitting at the table, Milton said, ”You should talk to him. I can arrange it.”

“You’ll make me talk to him.”

“I can’t make you do anything. I can persuade, cajole, harass, but I can’t make you. We’ll talk about it later,” Milton said, looking at the boys still seated at the table.

Luke saw Milton whisper something in Tilden’s ear. It had to be something like “The boys are watching.” because Tilden visibly pulled himself together and sat back down, giving everyone a small smile.

“As you can see even us tops disagree. Hopefully it doesn’t come to blows because I think Milton would beat me every time,” Tilden said a weak grin.

Steve was sitting perched on the edge of his chair, his eyes darting around the room, like a rabbit unsure which direction to flee. Milton reached out and tousled Steve’s hair. “Welcome to our extended family. We have messy arguments also.”

Steve didn’t look reassured and Tilden reached out and put his hand on the young man’s knee. “Trust me; no one will cane you. They’d have to come through me first. I may not be a Green Mountain Boy, but you’d have to do a whole lot more than go to a party or do poorly in school to deserve it in my book.”

“Does Mr. Martin cane?” Steve asked with a small shiver.

“I don’t think so, but you’d have to ask him,” Milton said. “It’s pretty rare on this side of the Atlantic. I have one. Gordon gave it to me after that incident to remind me of my folly, but I rarely use it.”

“It’s wicked,” Sheldon said.

“So what are you young men so deep in conversation over?” Jeremiah said, walking up to the table.

“Caning,” Sheldon replied.

“Did I miss something?” Joshua asked, placing his hand on Steve’s shoulders.

“You wouldn’t cane me, would you?” Steve asked with a slight tremor in his voice.

“You’re not planning on committing a caning offense, are you, boy?”

“What’s a caning offense?” Steve looked at Joshua, his eyes wide with fear.

“It’d have to be pretty terrible,” Jeremiah broke in, “because I’ve done some pretty crazy stunts back when I was younger and not so wise, and he’s never caned me.”

“Steve,” Joshua said softly. “A special implement like a cane would only be used by mutual agreement of both dominant and the submissive. What brought this up?”

“Tilden was talking about the Green Mountain Boys.”

“Do you mean his introduction to Gordon?” Joshua asked with a raised eyebrow.

Tilden nodded.

“Gordon blew it then,” Joshua said. “Tilden, you should come to one of our meetings and discuss it.”

“It was years ago,” Tilden protested. “There’s no need to dredge up the story, call a meeting, and discuss it in front of the lodge. All the rules and rituals you guys like. What are you going to do, dress up in robes and carry staves?”

“Shucks, and I thought our meetings were secret. This is not about punishing anyone or pointing fingers. Our young tops can benefit from the errors of their elders. Gordon freely admits he handled it wrong. And yes, I know the story,” Joshua said, looking at Tilden. “It’s why Milton’s never pressed you to join the Green Mountain Boys. He feels guilty over your introduction, but I think it’s time. You’re in a threesome and a very fine top. You shouldn’t be ignoring the community. The Green Mountain Boys is about teaching and upholding traditions. I’ll bring young Steve to the meetings because he needs to understand these things, and I think we just scared him witless talking about caning. What are my young tops coming to, bringing up such a subject? No common sense.” Joshua reached down and grab Steve’s hand. “Come on, little one, it’s time you cracked the books.”

“I think the same can be said for you two,” Tilden said and ruffled Luke’s curls. “Up you go. Once my parents get back from their shopping expedition, you won’t get anything done. My dad can’t go to a store without causing a minor national emergency. I’m sure he’ll have several funny stories to tell.” Tilden gave both his partners a bright smile that reflected in his eyes. “If we get drafted into the Green Mountain Boys, you want your grades up to snuff or someone just might come after you with a cane.”

“Never.” Mike said with an easy laugh. “You and Milton would go all protective, and they’d be lucky to get out of town with their lives.”

“You’re right, boy,” Milton said and pulled Mike up and landed a light swat on his hip. “No canes, but I think your partner just requested that you leave for home and homework. Now go, boys.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

**Chapter 10**

 

The sedan car pulled up to an enormous gate set between two stone pillars. Mike thought they were in Vermont. After years of his parents dumping him all over the world, he’d become an expert at figuring out locations from the back of the car even when the driver was attempting to confuse him. The driver had driven around Burlington twice before heading back south toward Bristol and Middlebury.

The driver’s side window slid down with a hiss, and the young man dressed in a stereotypical chauffeur’s uniform complete with cap waved a card in front of a hidden sensor on the stone pillar. A massive iron gate began its slow journey, no longer blocking the narrow asphalt strip that wound between the barren trees. Before the window returned to its place, a cold blast of air swirled through the overheated car compartment. It must have been five degrees colder than in Boston. Mike reached for his coat that he’d stripped off earlier. Tilden had explained something about the increased warmth from being on the coast, but Mike was still shocked at the difference.

The car continued slowly up the path. In the dim glare of the headlights, Mike could see little until they pulled up to an enormous house ablaze with lights. Several other identical sedan cars were parked in the circular drive, with bellhops toting bags up the stairs and onto the wide porch. A uniformed bellhop opened the door and signaled to the occupants that they should exit.

“Welcome to the Inn at Bridge Falls. You’re in room three thirty-three.” He pressed an old-fashioned brass key into Tilden’s hand. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ll handle all the luggage. There’ll be a meeting in the great room in forty-five minutes. Enjoy your stay.”

Mike discreetly felt for the money belt concealed under his baggy pants. Sheldon had warned them that the producers would search their luggage for any contraband material, especially cell phones and pocket computers. Tilden had been loath to place his family entirely at the mercy of television producers enslaved to ratings and advertising dollars, and all three members of the family had hidden phones, cash, and a bankcard for emergencies.

The room was spacious with an extra large king-sized bed plus a pullout sofa. A bowl of fresh fruit sat on the table, and the mini bar was stocked with a wide variety of alcohol. 

“Look at this,” Mike said, pulling open the refrigerator, “beer, wine, and vodka. We’re all set.”

“Is there any water or soda?” Tilden asked.

“I don’t see any.” Mike said.

“That figures,” Tilden said with a grimace. “Alcohol loosens the tongue.”

“You’re not going to let us have any, are you?” Mike asked.

“What do you think, Mishenka?” Tilden reached over and lightly swatted Mike on the hip.

“No, big, bad top won’t let us near that stuff.”

“You’ve got that right.” Tilden said with a grin. “We’ll all enjoy this a lot more if we don’t create any television moments. _Ti ponimaesh?_ ”

“ _Yest’,”_ both brats said in unison, mocking the Russian military movie they’d seen last night.

“I like that.” Tilden smiled. “Yes, sir and no, sir, we should have no problems. I didn’t even ask you, Luka. Do you have a guilty conscious?”

“No, I was just saving you time.”

“Brat,” Tilden said with a laugh, trilling his tongue over the consonants like he was speaking Russian.

 

 

The great room was full of tops and brats when Tilden, Mike, and Luke entered. A variety of finger foods had been spread out on the table along with glasses of wine. Tilden grabbed a staff member and demanded water. The poor woman scurried off to what Mike assumed was the kitchen and came back with half a dozen water bottles still wrapped in the plastic from the store.

“It’s warm,” Luke muttered.

“Yes, but it’s not alcoholic. This isn’t negotiable, guys, so don’t even try.”

“And I thought Russians drank like fish,” Mike groused.

“There’s a time and a place, and this is not it,” Tilden said emphatically. 

Cotton had come out of the throng of fellow contestants when he spotted them and was now standing to Luke’s left. Tilden reached over, grabbed the glass of wine from Cotton, set it behind him on a low table, and replaced it with a bottle of water.

“Hey,” Cotton muttered more at Luke than at Tilden. “Does he always do that?”

“Don’t mind him,” Mike said. “He’s on an anti-alcohol campaign.”

“He’s right,” Brad said, having slipped up beside his partner. He hooked an arm around Cotton’s  waist and ruffled his fair hair. “We’ll have some of that water.”

Cotton leaned against Brad. “Bully,” he murmured with no heat in his voice.

“You like me this way.” Brad hugged his partner tighter. 

“Everything going well?” Tilden asked in the polite, open-ended way that Mike recognized as a top prying while pretending to express only polite interest. Mike had heard the same question innumerable times from all the tops.

“Better,” Brad said with a smile. “He hasn’t shown up on your doorstep again.”

“Brad,” Cotton whined.

“I’m only teasing you, babe.”

A strident female voice interrupted their chit-chat. Mike didn’t recognize her; it wasn’t the infamous Fiona. “Gentlemen, can you settle down, please. We need to get started. Please, come sit down.” She was pointing toward a row of sofas and chairs that had been arranged in front of an enormous fireplace. Several bucks endowed with impressive antlers were mounted above the mantle, along with photos of celebrities posing with fresh carcasses, completing the hunting lodge effect. 

Tilden kept a hand on both his partners as he guided them to a seat on the sectional. Brad and Cotton managed to squeeze in next to them. Mike didn’t pay much attention to the woman who droned on about the upcoming events and projects. He was more interested in observing the men in front of him. Luke had tried to fill him in on his fellow brats, but Luke freely admitted that he’d spent most of the time prior to the selection hiding in the corner and anxiously preparing questions for the prospective tops. Tilden hadn’t been much better, and he was a top, for God’s sake. He was supposed to be observing his surroundings and preparing for any eventual emergency. Instead it seemed he’d been as nervous as Luke. Tilden had been able to point out the couple in the impossibly tight pants. The top was the owner of Farolitos in Palm Springs, Miami, and New York, and the brat had been some sort of second rate nightclub singer. Mike watched the two of them as they openly flirted with each other and anyone within range. Mike thought he’d probably end up over Tilden’s knee in a heartbeat if he acted like that, let alone wore those pants. They’d surely go out with the next load to the thrift shop. Mike fingered the stud in his ear. He was the only one in the household who wore jewelry, and while none of the tops suggested he remove it, somehow, he thought, anything more flamboyant would land him in a heap of trouble.

Mike recognized the powerfully built gymnast who despite the cold was wearing a pair of wind pants and a flimsy T-shirt that did nothing to hide his well developed pecs. Mike couldn’t tell who was the gymnast’s partner as several guys circled around him, eyeing his ripped body. Next to the fire in an oversized armchair, a prosperous looking guy, his pressed khakis hitched up to show expensive Italian shoes, pulled a slight, almost boyish figure down in his lap. Mike thought he saw the boy flinch and stiffen as the man touched him. It was but a fleeting instant, but the impression seemed real. Mike turned his eyes toward Tilden, whose eyes were also on the two figures in the armchair. Tilden gave Mike a brisk nod as if to reassure and to acknowledge that he’d also seen something.

The hostess was droning on about decorating the Christmas tree and preparing holiday meals when Mike realized that Tilden had been chosen to lead the brats in the preparation of the holiday feast. It was to mimic the Thanksgiving spread as closely as possible. Mike hoped that one of the brats was a secret gourmet. Tilden might be able to manage burgers and mets on the grill, or at least if he failed, the fire would be outside—roast turkey, impossible. Tilden was allowed one companion top to assist him. The hostess was discussing the virtue of several tops with experience in the restaurant or catering business, but much to everyone’s surprise Tilden chose Brad Roberts.

“I can only manage TV dinners,” the vet said.

“Well, you’re doing better than me. I can boil water on a good day.” Then in an undertone meant only for Brad’s ears as the the others around them either chuckled or groaned at the announcement of their lack of cooking skills, “I trust you. We’ll manage the dinner somehow.” Mike heard despite the noise around him.

The hostess went on to explain the requirements of the meal and to promise either punishment or reward if the meal was a success.

“After our cooking, a bread and water regime might seem like a reward,” Brad joked.

“I bet the reward is dinner catered in from a fine restaurant for the next day,” Luke said. The hostess shot him a hostile look and Luke just grinned. “I told you so,” he said, elbowing Mike.

“The remaining tops are going on an expedition to find the perfect Christmas tree and holiday decorations to brighten the inn for the upcoming holiday season. Dinner will be a late lunch, served at two. After breakfast, the entire morning may be devoted to its preparation. Are you ready, gentlemen?”

“Of course,” Tilden said with a smile. “The master chef awaits the challenge.”

The hostess raised her eyebrows. “I’ve heard about your culinary skills. Master chef seems to be overstating it.”

“I have plenty of assistance,” Tilden said with a smile that encompassed all the brats in the room. 

Mike was struck by how easily his top was connecting with the remaining brats. He’d always thought that was more Milton’s forte to wade into the fray and sort out perfect strangers. But then again Tilden did teach, and this was exactly how he managed the classroom—a friendly smile with a hint of steel underneath. It was the friendly smile and Tilden’s eyes, the dancing violet flecks, that had kept Mike in the class after Tilden had handed out the syllabus with an obvious abundance of work. Of course, he hadn’t figured out the hidden steel until he found himself in an academic quagmire, and Tilden pulled him out of the swamp kicking and screaming. Mike smiled to himself; he wondered if any of these young men were going to find out that Tilden wasn’t the friendly pushover he was portraying. Woe to the unsuspecting. Mike doubted that Tilden would physically punish a near stranger, but he’d seen the results of Tilden dressing down a student, and it wasn’t pretty. 

Mike remembered the Russian major whom Tilden had verbally flattened. He thought the student was a junior or a senior who’d stopped by to see Tilden in his office. The student had ducked his head in the door, stammering and staring at his feet. Much to Mike’s surprise, Tilden had kicked both Luke and him out. They usually stayed in the office while Tilden tutored students or helped unsnarl a thorny problem in Russian grammar. The student had come out of the office about twenty minutes later, leaned against the wall, and drawn in a lung full of air as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time he was in the office.

“You two live with him?” he said as a half question. “More power to you. I thought he was going to have my head on a platter. I guess it’s still on my neck.” The student made a show of feeling his neck. “Oh and I’m Pyotr, a poor bastard who’s majoring in Russian.”

“So why’s he upset with you?” Mike asked.

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“It comes with the territory,” Mike said with a shrug.

“I handed in a not so hot paper, ghastly really. Tikhon Ivanovich, Professor Blake described it as less than my best work by far, and that was charitable. He was decidedly not impressed that I drank too much at a friend’s wedding. Something about organization and priorities. I don’t know. He was talking too fast in Russian for me to get all of it, and I didn’t think asking for the translation was a smart move.”

“Petya, don’t you have work to do?” Tilden said from the doorway.

“Yes, I was just leaving.”

“You were commiserating with my partners that I’m an overbearing ogre. Now go.”

Pyotr fled, but not before his face turned a flaming red.

If Tilden had that effect on students, Mike could imagine the reaction of the brats. They, along with the TV people, were in for a shock. The hostess thought Tilden was going to be a pushover and chaos would reign tomorrow, making for excellent TV. Mike could almost see her salivating over the prospect.

After a few more instructions, mostly for a future TV audience, the meeting broke up. Tilden circled among his fellow contestants, making light chit-chat before heading upstairs with an excuse that he had a stack of papers to grade. Mike, Luke, and Cotton grabbed a table and lounged in front of the flickering firelight. Two brats, beer bottles in hand, pulled up chairs and joined them.

“So you’re the threesome?” the shorter of the two with a fuzz of a goatee on his chin asked.

“That’s us,” Mike said, pointing at Luke. I’m Mike. That’s Luke, and across the table is Cotton.”

“I’m Jordan,” the young man with the goatee said. “My buddy’s Peyton. “Have a drink, man.”

“No thanks,” Luke said.

“I saw your top disappear upstairs. He looked like he was calling it a night. What’s one beer?” Peyton asked.

“Pass it over,” Mike said. “It’s not like we’ve got any homework to do. They got all big and looming and made us do it Wednesday night. Can you believe it? A vacation and we had to do five hours of homework Wednesday and another few hours Thursday morning.”

“They’re obsessed with school,” Luke said, reaching for a beer and taking a big swallow.  “God, I haven’t had a beer in ages. I forgot how good it tastes.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mike wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. 

“Cotton, you want one?” Peyton said, passing him a bottle.

“No thanks. Brad’s still circling around somewhere. I’m treading carefully right now. Brad’s way too chummy with your tops and their methods,” Cotton said with a wry grin. “I think they let the genie out of the lamp.” Cotton rubbed his butt. 

Luke raised an eyebrow as if he wanted to ask if Cotton had been spanked again.

“Oh, yeah, twice,” Cotton said. “You’d think I’d learn.”

“Never,” Mike said with a laugh. “You should talk to Sheldon, the champion spankee.”

“Who’s Sheldon?” Jordan asked.

“A housemate,” Mike said.

“King of brats,” Luke added.

“You weren’t putting me on when you said Milton spanked him at least once a week?” Cotton asked.

Luke shook his head. “I don’t think he’s even made it through a whole week.”

“Shit. You’re kidding me,” Jordan said, finishing one beer bottle and opening the next. I don’t think my partner has the balls to spank me. He tried the corner thing once, but I thought the whole business was laughable. He just lectures. It’s like listening to my mom. ‘Your behavior is regrettable.’” Jordan laughed.

Mike laughed. “Who’s your top? He sounds easy.”

“He’s a wimp. Maynard’s over there with the wine glass, talking to two other tops. He’s probably talking about the merits of the paintings or the furniture quality. All he ever does is drag me to gallery openings and talk about art. God, this will be the longest six months of my life.”

Luke looked up from his beer. “Why do you stay with him?”

“It’s free room and board, and maybe I’ll get famous being on TV. Some guys have jumped from reality TV to mainstream acting careers.” Jordan shrugged. “It could be worse. He’s got plenty of dough and a nice house, even if it is crammed full of his precious antiques.”

“You’re with that teacher guy aren’t you?” Peyton asked with a slight slur in his voice.

Mike had started his second beer, but from the sound of Peyton he’d been drinking since they’d arrived. Mike studied his fellow brat. Peyton looked about Luke’s height, with black hair cut into a short, spiked look. He was wearing jeans that were threadbare over his ass with a tight shirt; not much was left to the imagination.

“You like what you see,” Peyton said and licked his lips before running his hand down his own chest. “I’m sure we could have some fun. It’s not like I’m getting much.”

“Nah.” Mike shook his head. “I’m taken.”

“Good brat.” Peyton smiled at Mike. His perfectly white teeth flashed in a shiny row. “You believe in this top and brat shit. Henry tried to spank me once, and I told him where he could go. A hot little spanking before bed is cool, but dudes, this discipline shit is for the birds. My partner would have to be a lot hotter than Henry before I’d let him tell me what to do.” 

Mike fingered his beer bottle. Tilden was hot in a nerdy sort of way, and he certainly did tell Mike what to do, and alcohol wasn’t on the agenda. He looked over at Luke, who had peeled the wrapper off his bottle and was shredding it into thin confetti like strips. Luke’s cheeks pinked under Mike’s gaze. Mike knew without Luke saying anything that they were both thinking the same thing. If Tilden found out, they were both in trouble. 

“What are you two staring at?” Jordan said. “I’m facing the stairs; I’ll warn you if I see your top.”

“It’s nothing,” Mike said, embarrassed. He didn’t want to reveal that a very real spanking probably lay in front of him.

“He doesn’t forbid drinking?” Peyton said incredulously. “What an overbearing prick!”

Neither Luke nor Mike said anything. Mike tried to laugh in an easy manner as if the whole idea of drinking being forbidden was ridiculous and reached for another beer. To his own ears, his laugh sounded false, like a bad actor in an elementary school play. They chatted for another few minutes, talking about the usual inconsequential things that filled the hours at parties. Several other brats wandered over, said a few words, and wandered off. A few tops also strolled over. None, at least in Mike’s opinion, were impressive, and no one said a word about the growing pile of beer bottles on the table.

Mike felt a strong hand on his shoulder and turned. Tilden loomed over his shoulder, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. “Upstairs now, both of you. Cotton, go find Brad. It’s getting late. And you two,” he said, addressing Jordan and Peyton, “leave your bottles here and go find your partners.”

Mike didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because he was already halfway up the stairs. He didn’t want Tilden to swat him in public, other brats or not, and Tilden’s expression looked none too promising.

The room was quiet. A light burned over the desk where a stack of papers stood partially graded. Mike could see Tilden’s fine, spidery handwriting filling the margins. Mike sighed and ran his hand through his short, brown hair. 

“I think maybe we should be in the corner,” Luke said. “Did you see Tilden’s expression?”

“Yeah, I saw.” Mike wrapped his arm around Luke’s shoulder and leaned against his smaller partner. “I hate disappointing him. I didn’t even really want a beer.” Mike hung his head, and they both walked toward the only empty corner in the room.

Mike heard the door open several minutes later. He wanted to turn, but he stayed facing the wall, his finger tracing the pattern on the intricate wallpaper. Luke’s head was down, and he was slumped against the wall. Mike heard a zipper and the sound of Tilden sinking down onto the sofa.

“Boys, come sit down.” Tilden’s voice sounded tired. Tilden sat in the middle of the sofa and indicated that Mike should sit on his left and Luke on his right. “Since you were both in the corner, it’s not like you forgot, or it was unclear. You knew drinking was forbidden,” Tilden shook his head sadly. His gaze was weary, and his eyes were troubled as he studied his two partners. 

The silence stretched through the room. Mike listened to the whisper of the air blowing through the heating ducts.

“I trusted you, both of you,” Tilden said when the silence had seemed to stretch to eternities. His voice sharpened, more the the voice that Mike was used to when they were in trouble, a hard staccato sound. “Was there anything unclear about my directive not to drink?”

“No, sir,” Luke whispered, blinking hard to try to keep the tears from escaping.

“No,” Mike mumbled. “It was wrong, stupid. I’m sorry.” Mike bit his cheek to hold back the sobs. Mike could see the paddle sitting on Tilden’s lap, looking like an innocent, cutting board. God, he hated all this analysis of his behavior.  Couldn’t Tilden just get on with it? When Tilden went into lecture mode, he never stopped. It was like he developed a second and even a third wind.

“Was it impossible to comply with my instructions?” Tilden asked.

“No, sir,” Mike said, wiping his hands on his pants.

“No, sir,” Luke echoed. His eyes were impossibly wide, and he reached up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek.

Tilden took a deep breath and stretched his shoulders back. “This relationship is about trust. I agree to help enforce rules for all three of us, and you agree to submit to my decisions. You have to take an active part in it—choose to play by the rules. I don’t see that here.” Tilden sat back on the sofa and crossed his legs. Unlike most of the conversations before a punishment, Tilden wasn’t touching his partners; he wasn’t offering physical reassurance. It was as if he were waiting for them to make the first move.

Luke leaned his head against Tilden’s chest and stopped trying to prevent the tears. Tilden’s arm went around Luke’s shoulder, pulling him close, offering comfort but not trying to quiet him.

Mike folded his hands on his lap. He wished he could ask for the comfort, surrender to Tilden the way Luke could. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself, staring off into the distance. Mike felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he was yanked against Tilden’s chest.

“Stop this. You don’t withdraw into a private cocoon. What went wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” tumbled out of Mike’s mouth.

“You didn’t mean to drink. The beer magically appeared on the table.” Tilden didn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“No!” Mike wailed. “You’re not listening.”

“Talk to me, Misha. I will always listen. Right now you’re not talking to me. You’re whining and protesting because I caught you.”

“No,” Mike shouted. “That’s not it.” He jerked out from under Tilden’s arm, sprang up, and started pacing.

“Sit down, Mishenka”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request.” The words were said mildly, but the intent was obvious. Tilden shifted Luke from his chest in preparation to get up. He reached for the paddle.

“Mike, sit down,” Luke pleaded. “Don’t take this any further.”

Mike hesitated before spitting back, “I’m not a good brat.”

“You’re not trying.” Tilden said in Mike’s ear. 

He’d moved shockingly fast. Mike thought Tilden had been sitting on the sofa, and now he had Mike firmly by the arm, facing the wall. 

The paddle swung down sharply. “You do not run away. You talk to me.” Tilden punctuated each word with a paddle stroke.

Mike gasped and squirmed. He always forgot how much this hurt. Even through his jeans, Tilden had a powerful stroke. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Mike choked. “I didn’t mean to disobey you.”

“You didn’t mean to take a drink?” Tilden continued to spank Mike.

“No, you’re not understanding me. I knew I was drinking.” Mike let out a wail when an extra hard swat landed. “I wasn’t thinking. I know it looks like we intentionally blew you off. I’m sorry. It was stupid.” The words poured out of Mike’s mouth in a rapid jumble. “Please stop. I’m sorry.” 

Tilden spun Mike around and pressed his partner to his chest. “Mishenka, I’ve got you.”

Mike didn’t try to stop the tears as he sagged into Tilden’s chest. He let Tilden guide him back to the sofa. Mike shifted uncomfortably when his tender rump hit the serge of the couch cushion.

“Shh,” Tilden crooned. I’ve got both you.” Tilden’s hand stroked down Mike’s back. “You two need to learn to talk to me.” 

Mike shifted, and Tilden pulled him up into his lap. “I’m too tall for this.” Mike squirmed.

“Sit still. I want you here, so you’re going to sit here. It’s that simple.”

Mike leaned back against Tilden’s chest. It did feel good to sit here, his head tucked under Tilden’s chin, Luke lying against both their shoulders.

They sat silently for several minutes before Luke spoke, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Drinking was like telling you to fuck off. We didn’t mean that.”

“Language,” Tilden said with a glint of his usual humor back in his voice. He kept one arm around Luke and held Mike tight in his lap. “Tell me why I’m displeased,” he asked Mike.

“It was an intentional disobedience, a flaunting of the rules.” Mike buried his head in Tilden’s shoulder. He hadn’t intended to hurt Tilden. He just wanted to feel normal—like one of the guys.

“Why did you do it?” Tilden persisted.

“I didn’t want to feel different.”

“Cotton wasn’t drinking.”

“His top was downstairs.”

“Do I need to watch you every minute?”

“No,” both Luke and Mike chorused.

“That’s what it looks like. If I’m not present to enforce the rules, you ignore them.”

Mike hung his head. What could he say? It was exactly what they did. “How do we make this all right?” Mike asked.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You’re going to paddle us,” Luke said softly.

“Yes, that’s a given for intentional disobedience and drinking.”

“What else? Do you want to cane us?” Luke muttered into Tilden’s side.

“God, no!” Tilden took a deep breath. “Do you need me to?”

“You don’t have a cane.” Mike said. 

“Milton does.”

“It hurts,” Mike said with a shudder.

“Have you ever been caned?” Tilden asked.

“No, but I’ve read about it.”

“Do you want or need me to hurt you like that?” Tilden didn’t quite suppress a shudder of his own.

“It would hurt you more than it hurt us,” Mike said, pulling himself forward so he could study his top’s face.

“When did you get so smart? Maybe I should always spank you before we talk.”

“Please don’t,” Mike said with a twisted smile. “It hurt.”

“You need to talk to me.” Tilden said, pulling both his partners close. “This isn’t a one man show. I can’t do this by myself. This is about trust. And I’m not sure I can trust you right now.”

“Do you want to ground us?” Mike asked. 

“Luka, you’ve been quiet. What do you think?”

“You’re the top. Can’t you decide?” Luke chewed on his lip.

“Will it help you make a better decision? Punishment is not about making you miserable but teaching you something.”

Mike watched Tilden, hoping he’d make the decision, but Tilden sat and waited. Mike played with the cuffs on his sweater before answering. “I think I can speak for Luke here also. We won’t do it again, and we’d like a chance to prove it. If you ground us, we can’t prove our good faith to you.”

Tilden ran his hand down Mike’s back but didn’t say anything for several minutes. “ _Tak,”_ he said in that long drawn out way which meant he was still formulating his thoughts as he spoke. “You’re both getting paddled. That’s not negotiable. I won’t ground you, but you have early bedtime until we get home. In bed by nine.”

Mike wanted to complain about being sent to bed at an hour suitable for a fourth grader, but he kept his mouth closed. It could’ve been a lot worse. Mike’s stomach clenched as Tilden shifted him off his lap. The next time he was on Tilden’s lap it would be face down.

“Luka, let’s get this done.” Tilden patted his thighs.

Luke stood and fumbled with the button on his corduroys until Tilden unfastened it and slid his partner’s pants down. Mike watched as Tilden positioned Luke over his lap. Mike screwed his eyes shut. He couldn’t watch any more; this was worse than getting spanked himself.

The first swat landed. Mike heard the crack of a hand against bare flesh.  It seemed so loud, louder than when he was across Tilden’s knees. Jeremiah could probably explain the difference—something about sound waves, Mike thought. He wished he had earplugs. Only a few swats had fallen, and Luke was already crying. Mike curled into a ball, willing himself to think of anything else. His brain wandered into long forgotten high school physics problems—force equals mass times acceleration. What was it with these physics equations? He hadn’t liked physics in high school.

Mike jerked as if the swat had landed on his backside. The sound had changed; Tilden had switched to the paddle. He was spanking fast now, and Luke was making incoherent noises between a wail and a sob. Suddenly the paddling stopped, and the cries seemed louder without the sound of wood against flesh to mask the sobbing. Mike could hear Tilden whispering something to Luke. Words of comfort and forgiveness, Mike was sure. Tilden always forgave them no matter how stupid their behavior. 

Luke’s sobs changed to choking sounds and sniffles when Tilden stood and guided his partner to the corner. “Let me take care of Misha, _druzhok_.”

Tilden reseated himself on the sofa and guided Mike to his right side. Mike didn’t resist and started to push his pants down. He positioned himself over Tilden’s lap. With his height, he never fit as comfortably as Luke. He always felt unsure what to do with his hands. Should he fold his arms and bury his head in his arms on the sofa, or should he rest his weight on his fingertips and let his head hang down? His internal debate was interrupted by the first swat. Mike jerked and felt his breath hiss from his lungs. God, he was already sore. Mike didn’t try to stop the tears that came almost immediately. He jerked and plunged at each swat.

Mike couldn’t stop himself; he reached back to shield his scorched butt. Tilden caught Mike’s hand and pinned it to his back. “Hang in there, Mishenka. Breathe for me.”

Mike took several ragged gasping breaths and felt Tilden shift his weight. Shit, the paddle, Mike thought as the first blow came crashing down. Some sound came from Mike’s throat that he couldn’t name, something combining all the qualities of a screech, a groan, and a sob. Mercifully Tilden was quick. Mike quickly found himself on his knees between Tilden’s thighs sobbing incoherently. Tilden was trying to soothe him. Mike didn’t understand the words. He wasn’t sure if it was because Tilden was speaking in Russian or because Mike’s brain wasn’t working at full throttle. His nervous system seemed to be overwhelmed by the flames licking his butt, preventing all other coherent nerve impulses, including those of thought and speech.

“ _Vsyo normal’no s’chas. Ya lyublyu tebya_.”

Tilden was speaking in Russian, Mike thought as his head began to clear. He felt Tilden draw him to his feet and help him step out of the tangle of pants and shoes around his ankles. Tightly pressed against Tilden’s chest, they gathered up Luke from the corner, and they all fell into a heap on the bed.

 

******

 

Tilden woke to the sound of furious knocking and the rattle and shake of someone trying to force a door open. “I’ll be right there,” he called, hoping his partners would sleep through the racket. Last night had been rough. He’d spanked harder, and his partners had cried longer than he liked. He hoped he’d done the right thing, especially with Mike, who’d had more than half a spanking before Tilden even pulled his dark-haired partner over his knee. He wished Milton was here; he’d know the answers to these kind of questions, or if he didn’t he’d reassuringly fake it, Tilden thought with a wry grin. Maybe he could slip away to a quiet spot and call home for some advice. That seemed unlikely when the TV people were already pounding on his door at five thirty in the morning.

Tilden pulled on a robe and padded to the door. He moved the chair lodged under the handle and opened it a crack, forcing the rude knocker back rather than letting him into the room.

A young man, not more than Mike or Luke’s age, stumbled back into the hallway, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been ordered by the production staff to wake you.” The boy swallowed and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“At five thirty in the morning. Was Fiona by any chance behind this?”

“Yes, Ms. Moore insisted. I’m sorry, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir, and I know it’s your job, and she’s your boss. Will you give me a few minutes to wake my partners at my own pace?”

“Yes, sir. You need to be at breakfast by six thirty.”

“We’ll be there,” Tilden said with an easier smile than he felt. His partners were going to be sore and tired. He would rather have let them sleep in.

“Thank you, sir, for being so kind.”

“Is waking people usually an unpleasant chore?” Tilden asked, his eyebrows rising.

“Yeah, the last reality show I worked on one of the contestants punched me and another hung me over a balcony railing. You’re really nice. I wasn’t sure after...”

“You heard last night?”

“Ah—yes, sir. Everybody said you were royally pissed that your partners were drinking, and I could hear the crying. The walls aren’t that thick.”

“I see,” Tilden said, running his fingers through his short hair. “I’m a top, not a bully. I don’t make it a habit to threaten strange young men who have the unpleasant job of waking me before the rooster crows. Now don’t you have more people to wake?”

The boy nodded, and a wistful look came over his face. “Your partners are lucky.”

“I’m not sure they’d agree with you this morning.” Tilden laughed.

“I’m sure they do. I watched their eyes on you yesterday.”

“You’re too good for my ego.” Tilden put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and pushed him down the hall. “Go on now. Get back to work before we have Fiona up here breathing fire. You’ll find someone, kid.” Tilden murmured to the boy’s departing back.

“I wish,” the boy said, looking back over his shoulder with dark, pleading eyes.

“Stop it.” Tilden sharpened his tone. He didn’t need this kid dreaming over him for the next few days.

“Sorry,” the kid muttered before fleeing down the hall but not without giving Tilden another long look, emphasizing those sweet innocent eyes.

“Brat.” Tilden laughed to himself. That kid was going to be a charming handful for someone. 

Mike and Luke had slept through the noise and were curled around each other. Tilden longed to crawl back under the blankets and cuddle with his two partners, but instead he headed to the bathroom to shower and shave. Maybe the noise of the shower would wake them up gently and in good humor.

They were still sleeping when he exited the bathroom freshly showered and shaved. Tilden pulled on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. The colors would better absorb any stains made while cooking or attempting to cook. He didn’t think curtains flambé was considered a delicacy.

“Luka, Mishenka, you need to get up.” Tilden drew the blankets back, shook Luke’s shoulder, and tried to untangle him from Mike.

“What time is it?” Luke murmured sleepily, trying to pull the covers back over himself.

“Six.” Tilden continued to pry Luke from the bed.

“It’s vacation. Who gets up at six on vacation?”

“Crazy people who agree to appear on reality TV. Up. Shower. Shave.” Tilden landed a light swat on Luke’s thigh.

“Tyrant.”

“Tsar Tikhon Ivanovich himself,” Tilden teased. “Shower. You’re wasting time.”

Luke headed for the bathroom, and Tilden turned his attention towards Mike, who was playing possum. “Up you go, my sleeping boy.”

Mike groaned. “I’m sore.”

“Turn over and let me have a look.” Tilden ran his hand down the smooth flesh of Mike’s rump. It was a little red, but no bruising. “I’m sure it’s still a little tender.”

“It hurts.”

Tilden kissed his partner’s shoulder and ran his finger tips along the skin interspersed with only a few dark hairs. “Mishenka, is it that bad?”

“No, but this is nice.”

“Brat.” Tilden landed a light swat, aiming off to the side to miss the sorest area. “Get up.”

“Would it hurt more if you caned us?”

“Do you have a fantasy about caning?”

“Luke does.” Tilden could tell from the sound of Mike’s voice that he was embarrassed.

“For fun or for real?”

“For fun, I think. Naughty English schoolboy type thing. I think he’s more crazy than I am.”

“Maybe,” Tilden said slowly. “This isn’t a contest about who’s the more perfect partner. You’re both perfect as far as I’m concerned. We’ll talk about this more when we’re all together and more awake. Now up.” Tilden stood up and hoisted Mike up with him. “Bathroom, brat,” he said in a lighter voice than he felt.

Once Mike was safely in the bathroom, he sat down with a sigh. His partners seemed to have survived last night more intact than he was. Mike even suggested that Luke wanted to try a little play with a nasty implement. Tilden shuddered. How did you cane someone for fun? Tilden knew Milton had been taught to play when he was younger and with the Green Mountain Boys, but it wasn’t something that any of the tops did on a regular basis. Sheldon, for wanting to be spanked at frequent intervals, had made it clear that scenes weren’t his thing, or at least that’s what Tilden thought. If Milton and Sheldon played at home, they kept it a secret. He’d never seen Milton in leather, and the image of a leather clad Milton holding a whip over his cowering partner bordered on the absurd. Tilden blinked, clearing the lion tamer image from his mind. He’d have to talk to someone about the specifics of a caning scene. He owed it to his partners to at least try. Milton would know the right people. Unfortunately it was probably Gordon and his friends. Tilden swallowed. He could do this for his partners.

Tilden smiled as his two young men came out of the bathroom, each with a towel wrapped around his waist, a light sheen of water glinting off his skin. Identical grins hovered at the corner of their mouths. 

“Somebody was having fun in the shower without me,” Tilden said with a smile.

A sheepish blush rose over both boys’ cheeks, making them truly look like boys.

“Get dressed, you scallywags.” Tilden gently swatted his brats toward their clothes. “Hurry. I don’t want to fight a losing round with our dear friend Fiona because we’re late.”

This seemed to inspire the boys, and they rushed into their clothes. “Let’s go give her hell,” Mike said with a cheeky grin.

Even though it was six twenty-nine, Tilden and his two partners were the first people down the stairs and into the dining room. The table was laid out with a smorgasbord of cold breakfast food. The TV crews were hovering around like hunters and their dogs before heading out after the poor doomed stag. 

Over the next few minutes, the remainder of the couples staggered down. Cotton came running into the dining room dragging Brad behind him and immediately dove for the jelly filled doughnuts.

“Sugar high,” Brad said with a groan.

“You already nixed alcohol; you can’t take my sugar.”

Brad kissed Cotton on the cheek. “Never, my sweet, but leave a few for everyone else.”

Tilden watched the brats grab breakfast treats. The thin young man he’d seen with the man with the wire rimmed glasses took only a small apple and eased himself down into a chair as if it hurt to move. Both Luke and Mike had avoided sitting, but their movements were fluid as they mixed with the other brats while shoveling a variety of brightly colored, sugar filled breakfast treats into their mouths. If Trent found out what they were eating today, next week’s breakfasts would be poached eggs and whole grain toast with too many seeds. The silent boy diced the apple into tiny pieces, but Tilden didn’t see a single one enter his mouth. His partner didn’t seem to notice as he’d taken a plate of scrambled eggs and was talking with the real estate broker.

“Do you know who that is?” Tilden said, casting his eyes towards the boy as he questioned Brad.

“Xavier. I don’t know his last name. I think he’s barely eighteen.”

“Something’s not right,” Tilden said.

Brad looked at Tilden questioningly. “You mean more than everything else that’s going on in this ridiculous weekend? Maybe he doesn’t like hanging out with strangers. I can sure sympathize there.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Tilden said, watching as Xavier took his minced apple and tossed it in the trash. He stood high over the trash can and let the plate fall as if he didn’t want to bend over.

“He looks sore,” Brad said, and then his eyebrows knitted together. “You think something’s not right between him and his partner?”

Tilden nodded. “Hopefully I’m wrong. Maybe he was in a car crash.”

“You’re going to ask?”

“Yes, it’s our responsibility as tops. I need to talk to him away from his top.”

“He’s an adult.” Brad said, stirring his eggs with a fork.

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean he should be abandoned. Do you stand by why someone gets mugged with the excuse that adults don’t need your help?”

“Easy.” Brad lifted his hands in a soothing gesture. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat,” Tilden said with a small smile. “I’m a little on edge today also.”

“Last night?”

Tilden nodded. “I didn’t want to have to do that this weekend.”

Brad gave Tilden a wide smile. “Look I’m not laughing at you, but God, it’s a relief to know that even an experienced top like you has trouble with the discipline thing. I have to practically threaten myself with the paddle before I can spank Cotton, and he needs it sometimes. Milton was right when he called Cotton straightforward but needing a firm hand. I could never manage two. They’d have to commit me.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Tilden said, trying to hide a smile. “I guess I’m one step from the looney bin and a prying busybody. And by the way, I have no more actual experience with a partner than you have.”

Brad looked shocked for a second, as if he couldn’t decide if Tilden was serious, and then a wide grin spread over the vet’s face. “You must give your boys a run for their money on witty comebacks.”

“It’s a learned skill necessary to survive in our household.” 

Brad and Tilden both laughed. Tilden cast his eye toward his partners; they were talking with Cotton and seemed to be out of harm’s way. Both Xavier and his top had disappeared. Most of the other tops were lingering over their coffee. More than a few looked only half awake and as if they were nursing raging headaches.

“I think it would be a good idea to circulate around and try to get a feel for the brats before the cooking disaster,” Tilden said as he stood up from the table.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

**Chapter 11**

 

The feast preparations were coming along about as well as Tilden had expected, lots of small setbacks but so far no major disasters. Of course the turkey had only been in the oven a few minutes, not long enough to burn or catch fire. At least Tilden had known how to clean and truss the bird. After living in Russia, where you bought chickens with the head and feet still attached, the turkey had been a cinch. Now making the gravy was going to be a different matter. After reading the instructions in the cookbook, Tilden had turned that project over to Brad. Hopefully years of practice in the chemistry lab would allow him to quickly master the art of lump free gravy. 

Mike and Raul had taken over the task of preparing the bread. Mike seemed comfortable with the oldest brat in the bunch, and Raul had worked in a bakery. They were making several different types of muffins that all took the same basic batter. Mike explained that Trent had taught him that trick.

Luke and Xavier were peeling vast heaps of potatoes in preparation for boiling and mashing. Tilden knew that potato peeling was probably everybody’s least favorite job, but after last night Luke was unlikely to complain, and Tilden hoped the mindless repetition would soothe Xavier. The two brats weren’t talking much, but Xavier’s shoulders looked less stiff than they had earlier. Tilden had set them up at the counter, where they could both stand, avoiding the discomfort of sitting and the embarrassment of squirming for both of them. 

Brad had taken charge of the vegetables and taken Cotton, Jordan, and Peyton with him. All three had groused that they would be perfectly happy to have no vegetables, but Brad seemed to have the situation in hand. The remaining brats were the dessert crew. Tilden kept an ear out for trouble with them as he cut and plated the butter. He’d put himself in charge of arranging and decorating the table. He’d already separated the dessert group once into cake baking and pie baking when they’d started spatting over the benefits of a butter crust versus a shortening crust. As least Tilden had lucked out and had experienced pie bakers even if they were tired and short tempered. Tilden’s teaching experience had taught him to recognize group dynamics, and he congratulated himself on the quiet industriousness of the kitchen.

“You jackass! You just ruined the pie.” Paul pushed Colby hard into the counter.

“Ow, you little fucker!” Colby shoved back, sending a cascade of flour onto the floor.

“Come here, both of you. Now.” Tilden pointed to a spot on the floor in front of his feet. So much for quiet and industrious work. It was nice while it lasted.

The young men shuffled toward him. At least they both had the good grace to look embarrassed. The other brats were peeking over their shoulders, eager to see what was going to happen.

“Mike, you’ve made pie with Mace before. Can you see if you can fix whatever disaster has supposedly befallen the crust?”

“I’m not an expert, but Mace always says add more flour and refrigerate if the dough is too soft and sticky.”

“Well, give it a try. I know nothing about pie. You two gentlemen can come with me into the dining room, and we’ll have a chat away from all these prying eyes and ears.”

They came easily enough; they both seemed glad to be offered the chance for some privacy. Tilden tried to reassure Colby, who appeared the more nervous, by placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him out of the kitchen.

“Sit down, boys,” Tilden said, pulling out two chairs. He remained standing, leaning against the table, trying to use his height to intimidate. Tilden didn’t want to go beyond a light lecture and maybe some time in the corner to settle these boys’ tempers. He hoped by projecting both authoritative and reassuring body language he could solve this spat with a minimum of fuss. He’d seen Milton do it more than a few times with nothing but an eyebrow.

“So what happened, boys?”

They both started talking at once, Paul gesticulating wildly and shaking his floppy brown hair out of his eyes. Colby raised his voice and started trying to shout over Paul.

“One at a time, please. Paul, you go first.”

“He ruined my crust on purpose.”

“I didn’t,” Colby shot back. “It was too dry and crumbly.”

Tilden raised and sharpened his voice. “I thought I said one at a time. Colby, stand up and turn around.”

“This isn’t fair.” Colby stared at Tilden, his green eyes wide; the freckles cascading over his nose made him look like a mischievous cartoon character.

“Stand up. Turn around.” Tilden shifted his weight towards Colby. He hoped he wouldn’t have to drag him out of the chair. It was a battle he didn’t want to fight with a stranger irrespective of brat or submissive status. To Tilden’s relief, Colby capitulated, stood, and turned around. “All right, Paul, go on with your story.”

Paul eyed Tilden as if trying to judge his mood. “Colby poured too much water into my pie crust and ruined it.”

“And that justified pushing him into the counter? Fighting in the kitchen is dangerous.”

“He did it on purpose. He wanted to ruin it.”

Colby twisted around to see his accuser. “I didn’t, you asshole. It was an accident.”

Tilden stood up, caught Colby’s shoulder, and landed three sharp swats on the jean clad rump. “I will give you a chance to tell your side of the story. Hands on top of your head.”

“Ralph isn’t this mean.”

Tilden could hear the slight whine in Colby’s voice and hoped he wouldn’t soon be dealing with tears of frustration. The young man sounded tired and at his breaking point. “I’m not Ralph, just think of me as the big, mean uncle you have to visit once a year and be on your best behavior because the uncle is a grouch.” Tilden squeezed Colby’s shoulder before sitting down and turning back towards Paul, who was staring wide-eyed at Tilden as if Tilden had grown three heads. Tilden thought he heard a mumbled expletive, and Paul’s eyes dropped to the table. “I only bite on the third Monday of the month, so I think you’re safe today.” Tilden smiled, willing the smile to go to his eyes. “Now, why don’t you tell me again what happened?”

“I was making the crust for the pumpkin pie,” Paul started slowly, “and it was a little too dry. When you make pie crust, you add water a small amount at a time from a tablespoon until the dough reaches the right consistency. That fool added it from the measuring cup and drowned the crust.”

Tilden interrupted before Paul could start to rant. “Do you really think it was on purpose, or do you think it was an accident? Think before you answer.”

Paul ran his hand down the seam of the tablecloth. “I...I think it was an accident.”

“Then you shouldn’t have pushed Colby?”

“No.”

“OK. Stand up and turn around, so I can talk to Colby.” Paul rose quickly and with great relief to his feet. “Colby, come sit down, so we can talk,” Tilden said soothingly.

Colby sat down, twisting his chair so he was cocked away from Tilden. His eyes darted to Tilden’s face, into the corner of the room, and over Paul’s back.

“Do you agree with what Paul said?” Tilden asked.

“Yeah, it was an accident.”

“Why did you push him back?”

“He pushed me first.”

“I’m aware of that, but wouldn’t you agree with me that the kitchen is a dangerous place for a wrestling match—sharp objects, hot stoves, boiling water?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?” Tilden said, raising his eyebrows.

“OK. I know. What are you going to do with us?” Colby asked the belligerence suddenly out of his voice. Instead he sounded like one of the freshman students pleading for an extension on a paper.

“I’m going to put you both in a corner for a few minutes to think about what we talked about, and then you’re going to talk to your partners tonight about the little altercation in the kitchen.” Tilden rose from the chair, snagged Colby’s wrist, and pulled him up. Tilden wrapped his other arm over Paul’s shoulders. “Let me get you settled in a corner.”

Tilden guided the two young men into the corridor that ran between the kitchen and the dining room. He placed Paul at one end and Colby at the other. Tilden would be able to see them from the kitchen, but they were out of the direct sight line and wouldn’t feel the pressure of the other brats breathing down their necks.

In the kitchen, Mike was looking forlornly at the piecrust. “I don’t think I can salvage this. It’s slimy.”

“Throw it out and start again,” Tilden said.

“I don’t know how to make piecrust.”

“How about a graham cracker crust?” Luke said.

“For pumpkin pie? Yuck.”

“I was just trying to be helpful.” Luke spat back.

“ _Rebyata,_ ” Tilden warned. Both Luke and Mike turned back to what they were doing. Mike pulled a cookbook down and flipped through the pages, spotting them with flour and muttering to himself. Tilden suppressed a sigh. This was going to get more difficult as the day wore on. Trent and Mace claimed that cooking was relaxing, but judging from the sniping and stiff demeanor, his helpers seemed to find it the opposite.

Tilden moved close to Mike and rubbed his partnerts neck. “We can always have ice cream for dessert. It doesn’t require any cooking.”

“That’s a cop out,” Mike muttered. “How fucking hard can piecrust be? Mace makes a dozen a day.”

“I think maybe you should take a walk, calm down.” Tilden squeezed the back of Mike’s neck. “Call Mace,” he whispered in Russian.

Mike turned around and gave Tilden a sly look. “I’m going to go outside for a minute before I get in more trouble with you. Can Luke come with me?”

“Sure, go play in the snow for a few minutes. I’ll hold the fort here.” Tilden tried to look burdened by the idea, but he suspected he failed. He’d never been a good actor.

“You’re not a brat. You’re not allowed to pout,” Mike said, laughing as he slipped out of Tilden’s grip.

“Go before I find more slave labor for you to do,” Tilden encouraged.

“Can you manage the potatoes by yourself?” Luke asked Xavier.

Xavier nodded, but his grip tightened on the knife and his eyes roved around the room before dropping back to the potatoes.

“I’ll help you with the potatoes. Piecrust is totally out of my league, but I think I can manage a knife.”

As Tilden approached, Xavier skittered aside and bumped the bowl of water and potato pieces. The bowl crashed to the floor, shattering on the tile. Potato pieces flew across the floor like a thousand hockey pucks freed on an ice rink. Tilden started to make reassuring noises as he stepped through the soggy mess. Xavier stood frozen, staring at the potatoes before a frightening keening sound escaped from his mouth, and he turned to flee. Years of living with Milton’s partner had sharpened Tilden’s reflex, and he snared Xavier’s arm as he passed by.

“Don’t hurt me.” The cry was plaintive, muffled by the tears that were already coursing down Xavier’s face.

Tilden did the only thing he could; he wrapped his arms around the shaking boy. Xavier felt like a small, frightened boy—more frightened and far younger than his own partners. Tilden steered Xavier from the kitchen, supporting most of the boy’s weight in his arms. Mike and Luke were both looking at Tilden, concern etched on their faces. Tilden tried to indicate with a brisk nod of his head that they should go for a walk. Mike seemed to understand the message because he grabbed Luke’s arm and towed him out of the kitchen.

In the hall both Paul and Colby had moved from their corners and were watching the proceedings with interest. “Go ask Brad what to do and behave.” Tilden’s voice was sharp enough that both boys scrambled to get out of his sight. Tilden briefly thought it was cruel abandoning Brad to a pack of unsettled brats, but the choked sobs emanating from the bundle in his arms needed him right now. His partners would be safe outside playing in the snow. If Mike reached Mace and Trent, they knew Tilden’s partners well enough to talk them through any anxiety about what happened, plus Tilden had seen his partners in the snow. He expected they’d come in wet and exhilarated after a brisk snow fight.

The great room was empty, but a fire blazed in the massive stone hearth. Tilden snagged a checkered wool throw rug from the back of a sofa and sat in the massive armchair closest to the fire, pulling Xavier down into his lap.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”

Xavier sat frozen in Tilden’s lap, his back and shoulders stiff with fear. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to choke back the tears.

“Easy, no one’s going to hurt you.” Tilden traced his fingers down Xavier’s back. Xavier flinched away from Tilden’s touch. “Are you sore?” There was no answer, but Tilden thought he saw the slight young man try not to flinch the next time Tilden’s hand ran down his back. “Can I have a look?”

Xavier nodded hesitantly, his deep brown eyes filled with tears. A stray tear dripped down his cafe au lait colored cheeks.

Tilden lifted the pullover and tugged the tails of the shirt from Xavier’s pants. He drew in a sharp breath. “ _Bozhe moy!”_   A series of welts and multicolored bruises covered Xavier’s entire back. “Who did this?”

“My top. It’s his right.”

“No, it’s not,” Tilden said, not hiding the anger in his voice.

“Please don’t hit me,” Xavier pleaded. “I know I’m a clumsy, useless idiot, but I’m too sore.”

“Shh, I won’t hurt you.” Tilden tried to will his voice to a calm, relaxed state. He was angry at the abusive bastard that had tortured this boy, but Xavier in his state was terrified of anger from any direction. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.” Tilden didn’t know how he was going keep such a rash promise. He stroked Xavier’s tight, coiled curls. He’d find a way, Tilden thought grimly.

“It’s the top’s right to punish. I’m bad.”

Tilden swallowed hard. He wanted to scream that the brutal marks on Xavier’s back were abuse, not legitimate punishment. “Honey, a power exchange is about many things, not about mere pain and not about abuse. Everything must be agreed upon by both parties. I can’t imagine you agreed to let your partner hurt you like that.”

“He’s the top. I must obey. I don’t learn, so he punishes me harder. I want to be good. I try to be good.”

“You’re a good boy. I’ve got you now.”

“I’m not good. I deserve to be punished. Are you going to tell Anthony?”

“You’re a good boy,” Tilden repeated, stroking Xavier’s head, trying to get the distraught young man to relax against his chest. “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”

“Anthony...Anthony will never allow it. He says...” Xavier rubbed his eyes. “He says I belong to him and that will never change. I can never run and hide from him.”  Xavier sobbed harshly, no longer trying to hold back the tears.

Tilden held the boy tightly against his chest and waited, hoping that his fury would subside and Xavier would calm enough to be able to hear Tilden’s words. At the moment all Tilden wanted to do was take the belt or whatever Anthony had beat Xavier with and return the favor. Tilden sighed. That might feel good in the short term, but it would do nothing to solve the problem. He had to get Xavier out of the clutches of that evil man.

“You’re a good boy. I’ve got you. Shh. You’re going to make yourself sick.” Tilden repeated the reassurances. The tears didn’t seem to be easing. In desperation, Tilden hardened his tone. “Stop. Deep breaths, now. I’ve got you.” He heard Xavier choke back a sob and take a long shuddering breath. “That’s right.” Tilden tried to fill his voice with warmth to make it obvious he was praising. “Good boy. No one will hurt you. Come on. Let’s get you upstairs where you can stretch out and rest.”

Xavier was only a wisp of a young man, and Tilden had no trouble lifting the boy into his arms and climbing the stairs. From the pile of wet clothes scattered across the room, Luke and Mike had returned from their outdoor adventure. Poor Brad he was now dealing with an entire passel of agitated young men by himself. Tilden briefly wondered if vet school would have equipped Brad for the challenge. It couldn’t be worse than herding cats. Tilden remembered trying to deal with his parents’ cat at the vet; he’d sooner manage an entire regiment single handily than put a cat in a cardboard box in his car again.

Tilden sat Xavier on the edge of the bed, where the boy stayed frozen while Tilden rummaged through Luke’s suitcase for a pair of soft sweatpants and a T-shirt. Xavier was limp as Tilden changed his clothes and tucked him into the bed. “You rest. I’ll take care of everything else.” He bent down and kissed Xavier chastely on the cheek. 

The words were whispered almost too softly for Tilden to hear, “I want to stay with you.”

“I’ve got you now. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going back with Anthony.”

“You can’t stop him. He’s too powerful.”

“Sleep. I’ll handle it.” Tilden smoothed the blankets and kissed the damp cheek again. Tilden pulled a book off the nightstand and read until Xavier’s eyes closed and his breathing evened out. 

Tilden softly closed the door, turned the key for the bolt, and leaned heavily against the wall of the corridor. The other guest rooms were shut, and in the calm hallway Tilden let the anguish he felt wash over him. It had been easy to promise Xavier that he could protect him, but could he really do it? He didn’t know Xavier’s or Anthony’s last name. In fact he didn’t know anything about Xavier except for what the bruises and welts streaking across his young body told Tilden. The boy was so fragile and vulnerable. Maybe there was a relative he could call. 

A man with a badge around his neck and partially untucked shirt tails approached Tilden. “Fiona is looking for you downstairs.”

“She can look,” Tilden snapped. “I need to talk to someone higher up—someone with more clout and more sense than Fiona.”

“Look man, take it up with her. I’m not a big hotshot on this program.”

“Arrange it immediately,” Tilden practically snarled.

“You really don’t like cooking,” the man said with an impish grin.

Tilden reached out and grabbed the necklace ID, flipping it over to read the name. “John, I’m not playing here. I’m not talking about cooking, or a bad mood created because I can’t fry an egg. This is about systematic abuse of a participant of this television show. Now either take me to see the most important person on the set, or I will call the police, the FBI, and any other law enforcement agency I can think of. I believe the show business axiom that no publicity is bad publicity doesn’t apply here. I think your television network would not wish to be connected with an abuse scandal.”

The man looked around the corridor as if someone would appear to make the decision. Tilden stepped closer to John, ignoring the ethical implications of threatening this man with his top skills. John paled and swallowed. “Follow me, sir.”

Tilden followed John down the main stairs and then down the back stairs into a room that was usually a game room but was now crammed with television monitors and other equipment. Several people sat hunched over monitors, earphones pulled over their heads. A large central monitor showed the kitchen. Much to Tilden’s surprise it was empty except for Luke who was tugging at the turkey leg. It looked like he was trying to see if it would move. Tilden assumed he was checking for doneness; he’d seen his mother do the same thing.

“Where is everybody?” Tilden asked.

“Outside,” Fiona said, glaring at Tilden. “This episode is supposed to be about your cooking, and you’re not participating.”

“I would suggest you order takeout Chinese or pizza. Cooking is the least of my priorities right now.” Fiona opened her mouth to protest, but Tilden continued without pausing. “One of the participants on this show has been abused, probably since the first day of the partnership, and the producers of this show have either been grossly negligent or willfully ignoring the signs of abuse. Do beatings make good television?” 

An older man had stepped behind Fiona during Tilden’s tirade. “Professor Blake, I’m Matthew Bishop. I’m in charge of casting for this program, and let me assure you we were in no way aware of this alleged problem that you’re describing. We will investigate it immediately.”

“I think welts and bruises from the shoulders to the thighs hardly need investigating.”

“You yourself physically punish your partners. You’ve freely admitted it.”

“A spanking administered with the full consent of my partner is hardly a brutal beating. You’re in charge of casting for this show; you should know the difference. If you don’t, this program is inherently dangerous, and you’re criminally responsible.”

“Let’s not throw accusations around until I know a few more details.” Matthew made calming motions with his hands. “Who are you talking about?”

“Xavier and his partner Anthony.”

 Matthew snapped his fingers and an assistant handed him a tablet computer. His fingers danced across the screen. Tilden could make out the large print names on the screen but no details.

“Xavier Dubois is a first generation American. His mother is originally from the Côte d’Ivoire. She married a French aide worker and immigrated to Paris. Xavier’s father abandoned the family when Xavier was three. His mother died last year, and he came to America, looking for a fresh start. It appears he has no other relatives in this country. He was paired with Anthony Turner, a successful investment banker currently residing in New York. We’ve certainly had no indication of a problem, and Anthony has provided financial stability to Xavier’s life.”

“And you thought it was a good idea to cast a young man with no community or family support in this type of program. You were asking for this kind of thing.” Tilden said, not trying to contain his anger.

Matthew made a soothing noise in his throat. The same young man that had woken Tilden this morning burst into the room, shedding snow onto the floor. “What’s going on?” Matthew asked, giving the boy a sharp glance.

“Some people showed up on skis.”

“Tell them it’s a private party,” Matthew said impatiently.

“It’s too late for that. They pushed right by security.”

“What?” Matthew and Fiona said together.

“Yes, they handed me this.” The young man handed a card to Matthew.

“The Green Mountain Boys,” Matthew read. “What the hell?”

“The cavalry’s here,” Tilden said.

“What?” Matthew spluttered. “Do you know these people?”

“I know of them,” Tilden answered cautiously.

“They’re committing criminal trespass. Call the police.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” A soft voice with a trace of an accent said from the doorway. The accent wasn’t English, Australian, or South African—more of a combination with a heavy dose of American thrown in. A tall man with sparse gray hair cut in a short precise style stood in the doorway. He was wearing an old-fashioned pair of ski knickers and a a dark green sweater with white snowflakes.

“Gordon,” Tilden breathed.

“Milton thought you might need some backup.”

“How’d he know?” Tilden said.

“Your lads are very resourceful. It’s seems they went outside and used a cell phone. I assumed you had something to do with it.” Gordon leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. He looked as intimidating as Tilden remembered him.

“The cell phone, yes—calling Milton, no.”

“From what I heard, I think it’s a good idea they did.”

“You’re supposed to have no contact with family or friends during your stay here unless it’s a emergency. That’s in the contract,” Matthew protested.

“I think abuse is an emergency,” Gordon said. Even though his tone was soft and reasonable, a silent threat hung in the air. “I haven’t heard the whole story. Tilden, would you be so kind as to fill me in?”

Tilden watched Gordon. He didn’t trust him, but here he was probably an ally.

“I know we didn’t have the best start, or as you Americans like to say, I blew it,” Gordon said smoothly. “But I am an enemy of your enemy here, therefore I am a friend, and I have experience in this area.”

Tilden nodded and shrugged. While Tilden would prefer not to admit it, Gordon was his ally, and Milton swore he was good with submissives. Tilden ignored the strong urges of his protective instinct and succinctly informed Gordon about Xavier.

“Did you say Anthony Turner?” Gordon asked when Tilden mentioned the top’s name.

“Yes.”

“We warned him off several times.” Gordon turned the full power of his stare toward Fiona and Matthew. “Numerous times the Green Mountain Boys have offered to lend their assistance to the network, and every time we have been rebuffed, often may I add quite rudely. We are aware of the gentleman in question and could have prevented this abuse.”

“Alleged abuse,” Matthew retorted. “I only have Tilden’s word that a problem occurred.”

“Tilden is an experienced top who I do not believe falls victim to the sensationalism that appears on your national television networks. If he reports abuse, I can assure you it’s correct. We are also familiar with Mr. Turner; he has quite a reputation with those in the know.”

“You can’t just barge in here and accuse us of covering up abuse and misconduct,” Fiona blustered. “I should call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”

“Feel free to call the local police. However let me remind you I regularly lunch with Mr. Davis, the head of news programming for the Prime Star network. I think you might want to call your programming director before you act rashly. An investigative coup against a competing network would be quite a prize.” Gordon reached into his pants pocket, pulled a cell phone out, and began to dial.

“I think we can ignore the irregularities of your arrival this time,” Matthew said. “I believe our next course of action should be for you to speak to the young man in question.”

Gordon clicked his phone shut. “Please lead the way.” Gordon must have noticed Tilden’s concerned glance toward the kitchen. “Your boys are fine. I brought several people with me, and they’re helping in the kitchen. Your Mike is a bit of a spitfire.”

Tilden nodded and gave Gordon a slight smile.

Gordon reached out and laid a hand on Tilden’s shoulder for a brief second. “Hopefully we’ll talk later, but let’s straighten out the situation with Xavier first.

Xavier lifted his head from the pillow when they stepped into the room. He’d pulled the covers up to his chin, and he stared at the people crowding into the room. Gordon, with easy efficiency, took one glance at Xavier and herded everyone from the room except Tilden and himself.

“It’s OK,” Tilden said, seating himself on the edge of the bed and resting his hand on Xavier’s shoulder. “This is Gordon Lewis. He’s a friend, and he’ll help you.”

Gordon didn’t say anything, but his eyes communicated his gratitude at the introduction. He walked over and perched on the bed next to Tilden. “I understand you’ve had a rough time. Will you let me take a look?”

Xavier looked at Tilden, his eyes filling with tears. Tilden wiped a stray tear from the boy’s cheek. “It’ll be OK,” Tilden said softly.

Xavier nodded and buried his face in the pillows. Gordon gently placed his hand on the boy’s neck. “I’m going to lift your shirt now and pull your pants down.” Xavier stiffened, but he didn’t resist. Gordon studied the welts on the back, tracing a finger down a fresh mark. “You were hit last night. Why?”

“I forgot to pack his red tie.” 

Tilden wanted to shout that forgotten ties were not a cause for violence, but Gordon warned him with a look to remain quiet.

Gordon pulled Xavier’s T-shirt back down. “I would like to have a chat with you. I know you have no reason to trust me. I’m a dominant, and you’ve been hurt by a person who calls himself a dominant. I don’t expect you to trust me, but I will protect you. Anthony Turner will never touch you again.”

“How can you promise that?” Xavier cried, wincing as he sat up in bed. “He’ll find me. I have nowhere to go.”

“You have plenty of places to go,” Gordon said calmly.

“No, I don’t. I don’t have family or money. My family in Africa can’t afford another mouth to feed, and I don’t have any family in France. Getting beat is better than being homeless.”

“That’s not a choice you have to make. Now look at me and listen.” Gordon said, a slight hint of firmness to his voice. “Being hysterical will not help the situation. I have several options, which I will outline for you, but you need to listen.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir.”

“There’s my good boy,” Gordon said, giving Xavier a gentle smile. Xavier relaxed with the praise. “May I touch you?” Gordon asked and got a small nod in return. Gordon pulled Xavier up into his lap and settled the boy against his chest. “You’re safe with me.” They sat for several minutes neither speaking until Gordon broke the silence. “I’m sure Tilden’s partners are missing him. Will you be all right if he goes downstairs? Then we can talk as long as you want.”

“I think so,” Xavier mumbled.

“Go. Trust me.” Gordon mouthed at Tilden over Xavier’s head. Tilden gave Gordon a searching look and reluctantly rose from the bed. 

 

 

The kitchen was alive with activity. Several men, whom Tilden had never seen before, were working at the long counters. One was giving Brad and earful about the proper use of a knife, and Brad, catching sight of Tilden, rolled his eyes and shrugged. Mike and Luke were making individual pies, decorating each with crust cut in the shape of Christmas trees and stars under the direction of a man in a white chef’s coat. Two near giants were standing inside the door, occasionally giving soft words of encouragement or gentle chastisements to the throng of industrious young men but mostly scanning the hallway as if expecting unwanted visitors. Both men’s ski sweaters barely contained their thick necks and massive chests. Only Milton and Gordon could come up with a plethora of professional chefs and sympathetic body guards in the wilds of Vermont in less than two hours, Tilden thought with a wry smile.

Both Mike and Luke spotted Tilden and abandoned their baking. Tilden wrapped his arms around his brats, enjoying the warmth and security of his two partners. “So you set the Green Mountain Boys on me,” Tilden teased softly.

“I told Milton. I didn’t know he’d call them. You’re not mad are you? That’s the Gordon from the story with the caning, isn’t it?” Mike said, his eyes expressing his anxiety.

“I’m not mad,” Tilden reassured. “I’m proud I have such resourceful partners.”

“Is Xavier all right?” Luke asked softly, worming his way under Tilden’s arm.

“He will be.”

“His partner hurt him?” Mike said it more as a statement than a question.

“Yes, we’ll talk about it later.” Tilden patted Mike on the rump. “I think you two have baking to attend to.”

“Da, _uvazhaemii_ _professor_ ,” Luke teased.

“Well respected professor. I like that. Now off to work.” Luke skipped over to the pies, dragging Mike with him. “Is there anything you want me to do?” Tilden asked the crowd in general.

“I’ve been told you’re a menace in the kitchen,” the man in the chef’s hat said. “Can you manage to chop parsley?”

“I think I can manage that.” 

The chef handed Tilden an enormous pile of parsley. “Mince—that means finely chop.”

Several of the men cooking laughed at the chef’s comment.

“Does he treat you this way?” Tilden said, pretending to be affronted. 

“No, you’re the only one who has set a kitchen on fire,” the chef said.

“Will I ever live that down, and how did you find out?”

“That type of news gets around.” The man in the chef’s jacket gave Tilden a small smile with a raised eyebrow. “You know how that is? We gossip. Oh, and I’m Armand by the way. My partner’s Kit. He’s the muscle hunk with the black hair; the other one’s Everett, and helping me in the kitchen are Sidney and Wayne. Sidney waved a salt shaker at Tilden. Wayne seemed more reserved and nodded his head, his brown curls scattering across his forehead. “We’ve got it covered. Chop the parsley and leave the rest to us.”

Tilden nodded. They did seem to be comfortably in charge. He wasn’t sure who were the submissives and who were the dominants, but Tilden had no desire to find out. He started to chop the parsley.

“Not like that.” Armand’s hand closed around Tilden’s wrist. “You’re going to cut your fingers off. Plus I want minced parsley, not parsley trees.” Armand rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how a guy can live as long as you have and not even know how to use a knife. We’re not talking brain surgery.”

Tilden started to mumbled something about not cooking when Mike interrupted, “Trent will only let him in the kitchen to make tea. He’s a menace. He burnt the boxed macaroni and cheese once. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Mishenka,” Tilden rolled the name off his tongue, pretending to be offended. “I should make you eat bread and water for a week for that comment.”

“You’re not that mean,” Mike said, flashing his top a teasing grin. “It would be better than your cooking anyway.”

Tilden tossed a dish towel at Mike. Kit caught the towel in mid flight. The look he gave Tilden expressed his displeasure at flying objects in the kitchen. Tilden gave him an apologetic half smile and tried to focus on the chopping and mincing lesson. Several of the guys snickered, having noticed the silent exchange.

“You’re hopeless,” Armand said, looking in dismay at the parsley pieces that ranged in size from one millimeter to several centimeters. “Go conjugate verbs or whatever you do. I don’t have any easier jobs in the kitchen.”

“I can set the table. I do know where to put the dessert forks and the salad forks.”

Armand nodded. “Get out of here.”

Tilden squeezed the back of Luke’s neck as he headed toward the dining room. Luke turned and gave Tilden a beseeching look, his blue eyes wide and round. “I think this is a two man job.” Tilden dropped his hand around Luke’s waist and guided him into the dining room.

It was about an hour before Tilden saw Gordon on the stairs, his arm wrapped around Xavier’s shoulders. “Do you have anything that needs doing? Our boy here was getting tired of loafing.”

“You’ll have to ask Armand. I’ve been banished from the kitchen,” Tilden said with a smile directed at Xavier.

“The kitchen’s his domain,” Gordon said dryly. “He’s very possessive of his space, even though I think he’s justified in your case.”

Tilden looked away. Gordon sounded like he was teasing, but Tilden wouldn’t let his reserve down with him. 

“When is everyone else due back?” Gordon asked.

“Thirty minutes, according to Fiona.”

Xavier leaned closer to Gordon, and the older top tightened his arm. “You’re safe with me, my lad. He won’t bother you. Why don’t you go help everybody for a minute. I’m sure they missed you.” Gordon unwrapped his arm and gave Xavier a soft push. The boy looked back but did step away. Gordon nodded toward the kitchen, his expression strict.

Gordon waited until Xavier had disappeared before turning to Tilden. “I know you don’t trust me, but I will protect that boy. I have the ability to keep him safe. You don’t have the power or connections I have.”

Tilden stiffened his back. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not the naive boy you caned fifteen years ago.”

“No, you’re not. Hopefully you’re a mature dominant who makes careful and weighted decisions.” Gordon held his hand up when Tilden started to interrupt. “I’m aware I made neither a careful nor weighted decision those many years ago. I assumed you were like Milton. I was wrong. I cannot change that, but right now we need to focus on that young man. He trusts you as much as he trusts anyone, and it will be easier if you support my decisions. I will take him to the lodge and give him a job. He can stay with us as long as he likes.”

“Will you discipline him?”

“That’s between the two of us, but to set your mind at ease, I would require detailed negotiations before I would consider it. That boy needs to understand his rights. Now do you have any more concerns that I can address in private?”

Tilden shrugged. There were thousand of things he’d like to say, but none seemed appropriate at this moment. He didn’t like Gordon, but Gordon was right. They needed to present a unified front.

“I know you don’t like me and don’t trust me,” Gordon said softly. “Try to find the courage in your heart to give me a second chance. I was as wrong as a top can be. We all make mistakes. It is how you handle your mistakes that determines your mettle as a dominant. I freely admit I was wrong, and I hope we can work together and put it behind us. But now we need to take care of Xavier.”

Tilden nodded. “How are you going to keep Anthony away from him?

Gordon shot Tilden a predatory smile. “I know the two senior partners at his firm. I will inform them of their golden boy’s dirty little secret if needed. I play for keeps.”

“I hope you can make good on your promises,” Tilden said.

“I will.” Gordon captured Tilden in his gaze and stared until Tilden dropped his eyes. “Try to trust me.”

 

 

The turkey came out of the oven golden brown with crisp, crackled skin. Tilden heard the faint sound of cars pulling into the drive and the front door opening. Gordon and Kit headed purposefully toward the front hall, and Everett looped an arm around Xavier’s waist and pulled him close.

Tilden wasn’t privy to the the exact arrangements, but he’d seen one of Gordon’s many minions bring Anthony’s bags downstairs, and unless he was way off base, Gordon and his well muscled friends were going to make some not very veiled threats and show Mr. Turner to the door.

The TV people were scrambling around setting up for the dinner. They seemed to have stayed out of the whole mess with Xavier—maybe abuse was even too much for the network to stomach. Tilden suspected it had more to do with Gordon knowing the right people. He hadn’t been shy about informing the officious Fiona that he played golf weekly with several big honchos in a competing network who would love to spread vicious truths.

Gordon swept back into the kitchen with a trace of a smug smile playing on his lips. Xavier ran to him and buried himself in the older top’s arms. Tilden watched. Gordon had to be doing something right. Xavier trusted him, and Milton had trusted him enough to ask for help. Tilden, still unable to set his mind at ease, recited a short Lermontov poem to himself. The poems he’d learned early in his career in Russian were always calming. He’d have to face his problem with Gordon.

The dinner went well. Most of the tops were subdued as the rumors quickly spread about the presence of the extra kitchen help and the disappearance of Anthony Turner. Luke and Mike ate as if they hadn’t seen food for a week, and Gordon with a combination of coaxing and light scolding even settled Xavier in front of a substantial plate. Dessert had been served, and it had been announced that the team of Brad and Tilden had won the cooking prize with an unorthodox, but acceptable strategy. The remaining dinners would be catered for the rest of the weekend. Everyone cheered at this news.

Gordon stood and tapped his spoon against his water glass. The alcohol that had flowed so freely before had vanished. Tilden suspected this was also Gordon’s doing. “Gentlemen,” he said twice before a hush fell over the men. “I’m Gordon Lewis of the Green Mountain Boys.” A ripple passed through the crowd at the mention of that fabled name. “From your response, I can see that some of you have heard of our organization. We are a real organization, headquartered in Vermont but with small chapters all over the globe. We are not an urban legend as some of you may have been led to believe. I assure you that we are here to provide assistance to any of you: submissives, dominants, or both together. New relationships are always fraught with difficulties, but new relationships of the type we practice have additional hurdles to overcome, especially when they were created within the artificial confines of a television studio. A disaster was averted today because you were fortunate to have amongst you a top with both experience and training. He is a close friends of a top whom I personally trained, and he recognized and intervened in an inappropriate relationship immediately. His partners were both resourceful and intelligent and placed the first call for help. They have a relationship that all of us can both envy and learn from. Gordon reached over and shook Tilden’s hand, pulling him to his feet. 

“Thank you,” Tilden murmured, feeling himself blush. 

“It is I who should thank you. You didn’t look the other way or pretend you didn’t see. You did the right thing, the honorable thing, and the difficult thing. May all of us dominants remember our duty to all humanity.” Gordon leaned forward and for Tilden’s ears only whispered, “I promise to protect Xavier, or you have my permission to come after me.” Gordon flashed Tilden a quick smile, a smile that had probably had both boys and girls swooning when he younger and was still charming and commanding at the same time. “To your success, gentlemen.” Gordon lifted his water glass before sinking back into the chair.

Armand stood and passed three business cards to every man seated at the table. The first card had a toll free number for the Green Mountain Boys and a number for the lodge in Vermont. The second card was Gordon and his partner’s card with numbers listed around the world and a note scrawled in tiny handwriting, “Call anytime.” The third card was printed on both sides crammed full of names and phone numbers. 

Luke flipped the card over. “Joshua and Milton’s numbers are on this. Who is Andrew Brown?”

“That’s Milton’s grandfather,” Tilden said, scanning the card. “These are the numbers of Green Mountain members located all over the country.”

“Yes,” Armand said, “call any of us anytime. It’s doesn’t have to be because you’re having a problem. It can be merely because you want to talk. I’m happy to discuss baseball at two in the morning if that’s what you need. My partner may not be too keen on my all night chats, but I can make him understand.” Armand flashed Kit a charming grin. Kit growled something unintelligible under his breath. “You can see my hours are a constant bane for my long suffering partner.”

“Brat, don’t bait me in public unless you want turned over my knee in public,” Kit bantered back.

Their teasing broke the formal atmosphere and everyone went back to the coffee and the remnants of the sweets. Some of the chatter was a little too loud and the laughs strained and high pitched, but in general the men tried to act like they were at a normal dinner party. Gordon and his gang, as Tilden thought of them, deftly made their escape while people were having their second helping of pie. Xavier slipped over to say good-bye to Tilden, flanked by the two muscled giants and watched closely by Gordon.

“Thanks,” Xavier whispered.

“You’re very welcome.” Tilden kissed the boy’s cheek. “Be good.”

Gordon caught Xavier in his arms as the boy scrambled back from shyness. “He’ll be good; he’s a good boy.” Gordon didn’t say any more, but Tilden could read in his eyes a promise to watch and guard over the boy. No one else noticed the exchange, and Tilden suspected few even noticed the Green Mountain Boys leaving.They vanished as silently and quickly as they appeared. It was almost like the whole thing had been no more real than a fairy tale.

Two boys, both waiting for him with shining eyes and voices sweeter than the nightingales of poetry. This was Tilden’s fairy tale, a dream that had somehow become a reality better than any fantasy. He caught his boys’ eyes and smiled. They had found each other and every minute minute was a reminder of the bindings of affection and love between them. It was a fairy tale with a far less chaste ending than the tales of his childhood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story continues in "Friends and Family." More of the Reality Check Universe can be found at my blog--The Blue Moon Reading Corner.  
>  http://bluemoonreadingcorner.blogspot.com


End file.
